UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


UNIVEHSITY  of  CAUFUtt«AA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 

LIBRARY 


5^  m^^  ssrr:^'' 

REMINISCENCES 


BY 


THOxMAS   CARLYLE 


EDITED   BY 

JAMES  ANTHONY   FROUDE 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 
743  AXD  745  Broadway 

i88i 


80S7        S   ' 


Authorized  Edition. 


Ail  rights  reserved. 


■    ♦    '         c'  •       .  ,  .  t     .       ,  1   C     t            '      •  .  '  • 

t    '   '    '                                                        .     «  •  I        • 

.,   ,    .         '  .        c  t  t  '<•'•'.«»•'.  ..  .        .         • 

;>'»••     c  .t'    '.  .    «'  ...    '  :  • «  '.  ••  •    ... 


•   •  •• 


Trow's 

Printing  and  Bookbinding  Company, 

20I-213  Kast  nth  Street, 

NBW   YORK. 


58 


+  •^"5  0 
PREFACE. 


In  the  summer  of  1871  Mr.  Carlyle  placed  in  my  hands 
a  collection  of  MSS.  of  which  he  desired  me  to  take 
charge,  and  to  publish,  should  I  think  fit  to  do  so,  after 
he  was  gone.  They  consisted  of  letters  written  by  his 
wife  to  himself  and  to  other  friends  during  the  period  of 
her  married  life,  with  the  "  rudiments  "  of  a  preface  of  his 
own,  giving  an  account  of  her  family,  her  childhood,  and 
their  own  experience  together  from  their  first  acquaint- 
ance till  her  death.  They  were  married  in  1826;  Mrs. 
Carlyle  died  suddenly  in  1866.  Between  these  two 
periods  Carlyle's  active  literary  life  was  comprised ;  and 
he  thought  it  unnecessary  that  more  than  these  letters 
contained  should  be  made  known,  or  attempted  to  be 
made  known,  about  himself  or  his  personal  history.  The 
essential  part  of  his  life  was  in  his  works,  which  those  who 
chose  could  read.  The  private  part  of  it  was  a  matter  in 
which  the  world  had  no  concern.  Enough  would  be 
found,  told  by  one  who  knew  him  better  than  any  one 


VI  PREFACE. 

else  knew  him,  to  satisfy  such  curiosity  as  there  might 
be.  His  object  was  rather  to  leave  a  monument  to  a 
singularly  gifted  woman,  who,  had  she  so  pleased,  might 
<^  have  made  a  name  for  herself,  and  for  his  sake  had  volun- 
tarily sacrificed  ambition  and  fortune. 

The  letters  had  been  partially  prepared  for  the  press 
by  short  separate  introductions  and  explanatory  notes. 
But  Cariyle  warned  me  that  before  they  were  published 
they  would  require  anxious  revision.  Written  with  the 
unreserve  of  confidential  communications,  they  contained 
anecdotes,  allusions,  reflections,  expressions  of  opinion 
and  feeling,  which  were  intended  obviously  for  no  eye 
save  that  of  the  person  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 
He  believed  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  that  his  own  life  was 
near  its  end,  and  seeing  the  difficulty  in  which  I  might  be 
placed,  he  left  me  at  last  with  discretion  to  destroy  the 
whole  of  them,  should  I  find  the  task  of  discriminating 
too  intricate  a  problem. 

The  expectation  of  an  early  end  was  perhaps  suggested 
by  the  wish  for  it.  He  could  no  longer  write.  His  hand 
was  disabled  by  palsy.  His  temperament  did  not  suit 
with  dictation,  and  he  was  impatient  of  an  existence  which 
he  could  no  longer  turn  to  any  useful  purpose.  He  lin- 
gered on,  however,  year  after  year,  and  it  gradually  be- 
came known  to  him  that  his  wishes  would  not  protect  him 
from  biographers,  and  that  an  account  of  his  life  would 


PREFACE.  vii 

certainly  be  tried,  perhaps  by  more  than  one  person,  A 
true  description  of  it  he  did  not  beUeve  that  any  one 
could  give,  not  even  his  closest  friend  ;  but  there  might 
be  degrees  of  falsity  ;  and  since  a  biography  of  some  kind 
there  was  to  be,  he  decided  at  last  to  extend  his  original 
commission  to  me,  and  to  make  over  to  me  all  his  private 
papers,  journals,  notebooks,  letters,  and  unfinished  or 
neglected  writings. 

Being  a  person  of  most  methodical  habits,  he  had 
preserved  every  letter  which  he  had  ever  received  of  not 
entirely  trifling  import.  His  mother,  his  wife,  his  broth- 
ers, and  many  of  his  friends  had  kept  as  carefully  every 
letter  from  himself.  The  most  remarkable  of  his  contem- 
poraries had  been  among  his  correspondents — English, 
French,  Italian,  German,  and  American.  Goethe  had 
recognised  his  genius,  and  had  written  to  him  often, 
advising  and  encouraging.  His  own  and  Mrs.  Carlyle's 
journals  were  records  of  their  most  secret  thoughts.  All 
these  Mr.  Carlyle,  scarcely  remembering  what  they  con- 
tained, but  with  characteristic  fearlessness,  gave  m.e  leave 
to  use  as  I  might  please. 

I  Material  of  such  a  character  makes  my  duty  in  one 
respect  an  easy  one.  I  have  not  to  relate  Mr.  Carlyle's 
history,  or  describe  his  character.  He  is  his  own  biog- 
rapher, and  paints  his  own  portrait.  But  another  diffi- 
culty arises  from  the  extent  of  the  resources  thrown  open 


viii  PREFACE. 

to  me.  His  own  letters  are  as  full  of  matter  as  the  richest 
of  his  published  works.  His  friends  were  not  common 
men,  and  in  writing  to  him  they  wrote  their  best.  Of 
the  many  thousand  letters  in  my  possession,  there  is  hardly 
one  which  either  on  its  special  merits  or  through  its  con- 
nection with  something  which  concerned  him,  does  not 
deserve  to  be  printed.  Selection  is  indispensable ;  a 
middle  way  must  be  struck  between  too  much  and  too 
little.  I  have  been  guided  largely,  however,  by  Carlyle's 
personal  directions  to  me,  and  such  a  way  will,  I  trust,  be 
discovered. 

Meanwhile,  on  examining  the  miscellaneous  MSS.  I 
found  among  them  various  sketches  and  reminiscences, 
one  written  in  a  notebook  fifty  years  ago  on  hearing  in 
London  of  his  father's  death  ;  another  of  Edward  Irving  ; 
another  of  Lord  Jeffrey  ;  others  (these  brief  and  slight),  of 
Southey  and  Wordsworth.  In  addition  there  was  a  long 
narrative,  or  fragments  of  a  narrative,  designed  as  material 
for  the  introduction  to  Mrs.  Carlyle's  letters.  These  letters 
would  now  have  to  be  rearranged  with  his  own  ;  and  an 
introduction,  under  the  shape  which  had  been  intended  for 
it,  would  be  no  longer  necessary.  The  "  Reminiscences  " 
"appeared  to  me  to  be  far  too  valuable  to  be  broken  up  and 
employed  in  any  composition  of  my  own,  and  I  told  Mr. 
Carlyle  that  I  thought  they  ought  to  be  printed  with  the 
requisite  omissions  immediately  after  his  own  death.     He 


PREFACE.  ix 

agreed  with  me  that  it  should  be  so,  and  at  one  time  it 
was  proposed  that  tlie  type  should  be  set  up  while  he  was 
still  alive,  and  could  himself  revise  what  he  had  written. 
He  found,  however,  that  the  effort  would  be  too  much  for 
him,  arfd  the  reader  has  here  before  him  Mr.  Carlyle's  own 
handiwork,  but  without  his  last  touches,  not  edited  by 
himself,  not  corrected  by  himself,  perhaps  most  of  it  not 
intended  for  publication,  and  written  down  merely  as  an 
occupation,  for  his  own  private  satisfaction. 

The  Introductory  Fragments  were  written  immedi- 
ately after  his  wife's  death  ;  the  account  of  Irving  belongs 
to  the  autumn  and  winter  which  followed.  So  singular 
was  his  condition  at  this  time,  that  he  was  afterwards  un- 
conscious what  he  had  done  ;  and  when  ten  years  later  I 
found  the  Irving  MS.  and  asked  him  about  it,  he  did  not 
know  to  what  I  was  alluding.  The  sketch  of  Jeffrey  was 
written  immediately  after.  Some  parts  of  the  introduc- 
tion I  have  reserved  for  the  biography,  into  which  they 
will  most  conveniently  fall  ;  the  rest,  from  the  point  where 
they  form  a  consecutive  story,  I  have  printed  with  only 
a  few  occasional  reservations.  "  Southey  "  and  "  Words- 
worth," being  merely  detached  notes  of  a  few  personal 
recollections,  I  have  attached  as  an  appendix. 

Nothing  more  remains  to  be  said  about  these  papers, 
save  to  repeat,  for  clearness  sake,  that  they  are  published 
with  Mr.   Carlyle's  consent  but  without  his  supervision. 


X  PREFACE. 

The  detailed  responsibility  is  therefore  entirely  my  own. 
I  will  add  for  the  convenience  of  the  general  public,  the 
few  chief  points  of  his  outward  life.  He  was  the  son  of 
a  village  mason,  born  at  Ecclefechan  in  Annandale, 
December  4,  1795.  He  was  educated  first  at'  Eccle- 
fechan school.  In  1806  he  was  sent  to  the  Grammar 
School  at  Annan,  and  in  1809  to  Edinburgh  University. 
In  18 14  he  was  appointed  mathematical  usher  at  Annan, 
and  in  18 16  schoolmaster  at  Kirkcaldy.  In  1818  he  gave 
up  his  situation,  and  supported  himself  by  taking  pupils 
at  Edinburgh.  In  1822  he  became  private  tutor  in  the 
family  of  Mr.  Charles  Buller,  Charles  Buller  the  younger, 
who  was  afterwards  so  brilliantly  distinguished  in  Par- 
liament, being  his  pupil.  While  in  this  capacity  he  wrote 
his  "  Life  of  Schiller,"  and  translated  "  Wilhelm  Meister." 
In  1826  he  married.  He  lived  for  eighteen  months  at 
Comley  Bank,  on  the  north  side  of  Edinburgh.  He  then 
removed  to  Craigenputtoch,  a  moorland  farm  in  Dum- 
friesshire belonging  to  his  wife's  mother,  where  he  re- 
mained for  seven  years,  writing  "  Sartor  Resartus  "  there, 
and  nearly  all  his  Miscellanies.  In  1834  he  left  Scotland 
and  settled  in  London,  5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea  ;  and 
there  continued  without  further  change  till  his  death. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

JAMES   CARLYLE   OF    ECCLEFECHAN,  ....         I 

EDWARD    IRVING, S3 

LORD   JEFFREY, .        .269 

JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE, 323 

APPENDIX:— SOUTHEY;   WORDSWORTH,  ,        ,         .        .511 


ERRATUM. 

Page  184,  third  line  from  bottom,  for  '*  Z^J  ca  datne  la  mano" 
read  "  La  ci  darem  la  mauo." 


REMINISCENCES. 


JAMES    CARLYLE,    OF   ECCLEFECHAN, 

MASON. 


JAMES    CARLYLE. 

On  Tuesday,  Jan.  26,  1832,  I  received  tidings  that  my 
dear  and  worthy  father  had  departed  out  of  this  world. 
He  was  called  away  by  a  death  apparently  of  the  mildest, 
on  Sunday  morning  about  six.  He  had  taken  what  was 
thought  a  bad  cold  on  the  Monday  preceding,  but  rose 
every  day  and  was  sometimes  out  of  doors.  Occasionally 
he  was  insensible  (as  pain  usually  soon  made  him  of  late 
years),  but  when  spoken  to  he  recollected  himself.  He 
was  up  and  at  the  kitchen  fire  (at  Scotsbrig"),  on  the 
Saturday  evening  about  six,  but  was  evidently  growing 
fast  worse  in  breathing.  "  About  ten  o'clock  he  fell  into 
a  sort  of  stupor,"  writes  my  sister  Jane,  "  still  breathing 
higher  and  with  greater  difficulty.  He  spoke  little  to  any 
of  us,  seemingly  unconscious  of  what  he  did,  came.ov^ 
the  bedside,  and  offered  up  a  prayer  to  Heaven  in  such 
accents  as  it  is  impossible  to  forget.  "  He  departed 
almost  without  a  struggle,"  adds  she,  "this  morning  at 
half-past  six."  My  mother  adds,  in  her  own  hand,  "  It 
is    God    that   has    done  it.     Be  still,  my  dear  children, 

*  Written  in  London  in  January  1832. 

*  A  farm  near  Ecclefechan  occupied  by  James  Carlyle  during  the  last  six 
years  of  his  life. 


4  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

Your  affectionate  mother.  God  support  us  all."  The 
funeral  is  to  be  on  Friday,  the  present  date  is  Wednesday- 
night.  This  stroke,  altogether  unexpected  at  the  time, 
but  Avhich  I  have  been  long  anticipating  in  general,  falls 
heavy  on  me,  as  such  needs  must,  yet  not  so  as  to  stun 
me  or  unman  me.  Natural  tears  have  come  to  my  relief. 
I  can  look  at  my  dear  father,  and  that  section  of  the  past 
which  he  has  made  alive  for  me,  in  a  certain  sacred  sanc- 
tified light,  and  give  way  to  what  thoughts  rise  in  me 
without  feeling  that  they  are  weak  and  useless. 

The  time  till  the  funeral  was  past  I  instantly  deter- 
mined on  passing  with  my  wife  only,  and  all  others  were 
excluded.  I  have  written  to  my  mother  and  to  John,' 
have  walked  far  and  much,  chiefly  in  the  Regent's  Park, 
and  considered  about  many  things,  if  so  were  that  I  might 
accomplish  this  problem,  to  see  clearly  what  my  present 
calamity  means — what  I  have  lost  and  what  lesson  my 
lo  5  was  to  teach  me.  • 

As  for  the  departed  we  ought  to  say  that  he  was  taken 
home  "  like  a  shock  of  corn  fully  ripe."  He  "  had  finished 
the  work  that  was  given  him  to  do  "  and  finished  it  (very 
greatly  more  than  the  most)  as  became  a  man.  He  was 
summoned  too  before  he  had  ceased  to  be  interesting — to 
be  loveable.  (He  was  to  the  last  the  pleasantest  man  I 
had  to  speak  with  in  Scotland.)  For  many  years  too  he 
had  the  end  ever  in  his  eye,  and  was  studying  to  make 
all  preparation  for  what  in  his  strong  way  he  called  often 
"  that  last,  that  awful  change."  Even  at  every  new  part- 
ing of  late  years  I  have  noticed  him  wring  my  hand  with 

'  Mr.  Carlyle's  brother. 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  5 

a  tenderer  pressure,  as  if  he  felt  that  one  other  of  our  few 
meetings  here  was  over.  Mercifully  also  has  he  been 
spared  me  till  I  am  abler  to  bear  his  loss  ;  till  by  mani- 
fold struggles  I  too,  as  he  did,  feel  my  feet  on  the  Ever- 
lasting rock,  and  through  time  with  its  death,  can  in  some 
degree  see  into  eternity  with  its  life.  So  that  I  have 
repeated,  not  with  unwet  eyes,  let  me  hope  likewise  not 
with  unsoftened  heart,  those  old  and  for  ever  true  words, 
"  Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord  ;  they  do  rest 
from  their  labours,  and  their  works  follow  them."  Yes, 
their  works  follow  them.  The  force  that  had  been  lent 
my  father  he  honourably  expended  in  manful  welldoing, 
A  portion  of  this  planet  bears  beneficent  traces  of  his 
strong  hand  and  strong  head.  Nothing  that  he  under- 
took to  do  but  he  did  it  faithfully  and  like  a  true  man.  I 
shall  look  on  the  houses  he  built  with  a  certain  proud 
interest.  They  stand  firm  and  sound  to  the  heart  all  ov-f|^ 
his  little  district.  No  one  that  comes  after  him  will  ever 
say,  "  Here  was  the  finger  of  a  hollow  eye-servant." 
They  are  little  texts  for  me  of  the  gospel  of  man's  free 
will.  Nor  will  his  deeds  and  sayings  in  any  case  be  found 
unworthy — not  false  and  barren,  but  genuine  and  fit. 
Nay,  am  not  I  also  the  humble  James  Carlyle's  work  ?  I 
owe  him  much  more  than  existence,  I  owe  him  a  noble 
inspiring  example  (now  that  I  can  read  it  in  that  rustic 
character).  It  was  he  exclusively  that  determined  on 
educating  me  ;  that  from  his  small  hard-earned  funds  sent 
me  to  school  and  college,  and  made  me  whatever  I  am  or 
may  become.  Let  me  not  mourn  for  my  father,  let  me 
do  worthily  of  him.     So  shall  he  still  live  even  here  in 


6  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

me,  and  his  worth  plant  itself  honourably  forth  into  new 
generations. 

1  purpose  now,  while  the  impression  is  more  pure  and 
clear  within  me,  to  mark  down  the  main  things  I  can 
recollect  of  my  father.  To  myself,  if  I  live  to  after  years, 
it  may  be  instructive  and  interesting,  as  the  past  grows 
ever  holier  the  farther  we  leave  it.  My  mind  is  calm 
enough  to  do  it  deliberately,  and  to  do  it  truly.  The 
thought  of  that  pale  earnest  face  which  even  now  lies 
stiffened  into  death  in  that  bed  at  Scotsbrig,  with  the  In- 
finite all  of  worlds  looking  down  on  it,  will  certainly 
impel  me.  Neither,  should  these  lines  survive  myself 
and  be  seen  by  others,  can  the  sight  of  them  do  harm  to 
anyone.  It  is  good  to  know  how  a  true  spirit  will  vindi- 
cate itself  with  truth  and  freedom  through  what  obstruc- 
tions soever ;  how  the  acorn  cast  carelessly  into  the 
wilderness  will  make  room  for  itself  and  grow  to  be  an 
oak.  This  is  one  of  the  cases  belonging  to  that  class, 
"  the  lives  of  remarkable  men,"  in  which  it  has  been  said, 
"  paper  and  ink  should  least  of  all  be  spared."  I  call  a 
man  remarkable  who  becomes  a  true  workman  in  this 
vineyard  of  the  Highest.  Be  his  work  that  of  palace 
building  and  kingdom  founding,  or  only  of  delving  and 
ditching,  to  me  it  is  no  matter,  or  next  to  none.  All 
human  work  is  transitory,  small  in  itself,  contemptible. 
Only  the  worker  thereof  and  the  spirit  that  dwelt  in  him 
is  significant.  I  proceed  without  order,  or  almost  any 
forethought,  anxious  only  to  save  what  I  have  left  and 
mark  it  as  it  hes  in  me. 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  7 

In  several  respects  I  consider  my  father  as  one  of  the 
most  interesting  men  I  have  known.  He  was  a  man  of 
perhaps  the  very  largest  natural  endowment  of  any  it  has 
been  my  lot  to  converse  with.  None  of  us  will  ever  forget 
that  bold  glowing  style  of  his,  flowing  free  from  his  untu- 
tored soul,  full  of  metaphors  (though  he  knew  not  what  a 
metaphor  was)  with  all  manner  of  potent  words  which  he 
appropriated  and  applied  with  a  surprising  accuracy  you 
often  would  not  guess  whence — brief,  energetic,  and  which 
I  should  say  conveyed  the  most  perfect  picture,  definite, 
clear,  not  in  ambitious  colours  but  in  full  white  sunlight, 
of  all  the  dialects  I  have  ever  listened  to.  Nothing  did  I 
ever  hear  him  undertake  to  render  visible  which  did  not 
become  almost  ocularly  so.  Never  shall  we  again  hear 
such  speech  as  that  was.  The  whole  district  knew  of  it 
and  laughed  joyfully  over  it,  not  knowing  how  otherwise 
to  express  the  feeling  it  gave  them  ;  emphatic  I  have 
heard  him  beyond  all  men.  In  anger  he  had  no  need  of 
oaths,  his  words  were  like  sharp  arrows  that  smote  into 
the  very  heart.  The  fault  was  that  he  exaggerated  (which 
tendency  I  also  inherit)  yet  only  in  description  and  for  the 
sake  chiefly  of  humorous  effect.  He  was  a  man  of  rigid, 
even  scrupulous  veracity.  I  have  often  heard  him  turn 
back  when  he  thought  his  strong  words  were  misleading, 
and  correct  them  into  mensurative  accuracy. 

I  call  him  a  natural  man,  singularly  free  from  all  man- 
ner of  affectation  ;  he  was  among  the  last  of  the  true  men 
which  Scotland  on  the  old  system  produced  or  can  pro- 
duce ;  a  man  healthy  in  body  and  mind,  fearing  God,  and 
diligently  working  on  God's  earth  with  contentment,  hope, 


8  JAMES    CARLYLE. 

and  unwearied  resolution.  He  was  never  visited  with 
doubt.  The  old  theorem  of  the  universe  was  sufficient 
for  him  ;  and  he  worked  well  in  it  and  in  all  senses  suc- 
cessfully and  wisely — as  few  can  do.  So  quick  is  the 
motion  of  transition  becoming,  the  new  generation  almost 
to  a  man  must  make  their  belly  their  God,  and  alas,  find 
even  that  an  empty  one.  Thus,  curiously  enough  and 
blessedly,  he  stood  a  true  man  on  the  verge  of  the  old, 
while  his  son  stands  here  lovingly  surveying  him  on  the 
verge  of  the  new,  and  sees  the  possibility  of  also  being 
true  there.  God  make  the  possibility,  blessed  possibility, 
into  a  reality. 

A  virtue  he  had  which  I  should  learn  to  imitate.  He 
never  spoke  of  what  was  disagreeable  and  past.  I  have 
often  wondered  and  admired  at  this.  The  thing  that  he 
had  nothing  to  do  with,  he  did  nothing  with.  His  was  a 
healthy  mind.  In  like  manner  I  have  seen  him  always 
when  we  young  ones,  half  roguishly,  and  provokingly 
without  doubt,  were  perhaps  repeating  sayings  of  his,  sit 
as  if  he  did  not  hear  us  at  all.  Never  once  did  I  know 
him  utter  a  word,  only  once,  that  I  remember,  give  a  look 
in  such  a  case. 

Another  virtue  the  example  of  which  has  passed 
strongly  into  me  was  his  settled  placid  indifference  to 
the  clamours  or  the  murmurs  of  public  opinion.  For  the 
judgment  of  those  that  had  no  right  or  power  to  judge 
him,  he  seemed  simply  to  care  nothing  at  all.  He  very 
rarely  spoke  of  despising  such  things.  He  contented 
himself  with  altogether  disregarding  them.  Hollow  bab- 
ble it  was  for  him,  a  thing,  as  Fichte  said,  that  did  not 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  9 

exist ;  das  gar  nicht  cxistirte.  There  was  something 
truly  great  in  this.  The  very  perfection  of- it  hid  from 
you  the  extent  of  the  attainment. 

Or  rather  let  us  call  it  a  new  phasis  of  the  health 
which  in  mind  as  in  body  was  conspicuous  in  him.  Like 
a  healthy  man,  he  wanted  only  to  get  along  with  his  task. 
Whatsoever  could  not  forward  him  in  this  (and  how  could 
public  opinion  and  much  else  of  the  like  sort  do  ?)  was  of 
no  moment  to  him,  was  not  there  for  him. 

This  great  maxim  of  philosophy  he  had  gathered  by 
the  teaching  of  nature  alone — that  man  was  created  to 
work — not  to  speculate,  or  feel,  or  dream.  Accordingly 
he  set  his  whole  heart  thitherwards.  He  did  work  wisely 
and  unweariedly  {Ohne  Hast  abcr  oJine  Rast)  and  perhaps 
performed  more  with  the  tools  he  had  than  any  man  I 
now  know.  It  should  have  made  me  sadder  than  it  did 
to  hear  the  young  ones  sometimes  complaining  of  his  slow 
punctuality  and  thoroughness.  He  would  leave  nothing 
till  it  was  done.  Alas  !  the  age  of  substance  and  solidity 
is  gone  for  the  time  ;  that  of  show  and  hollow  superficial- 
ity— in  all  senses — is  in  full  course. 

And  yet  he  was  a  man  of  open  sense  ;  wonderfully  so. 
I  could  have  entertained  him  for  days  talking  of  any  mat- 
ter interesting  to  man.  He  delighted  to  hear  of  all  things 
that  were  worth  talking  of:  the  mode  of  living  men  had 
— the  mode  of  working ;  their  opinions,  virtues,  whole 
spiritual  and  temporal  environments. 

It  is  some  two  years  ago  (in  summer)  since  I  enter- 
tained him  highly — he  was  hoeing  turnips  and  perhaps  I 
helped  him — with  an  account  of  the  character  and  manner 


^ 


lO  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

of  existence  of  Francis  Jeffrey.  Another  evening  he  en- 
joyed— probably  it  was  on  this  very  visit — with  the  heart- 
iest rcHsh  my  description  of  the  people,  I  think,  of  Tur- 
key. The  Chinese  had  astonished  him  much.  In  some 
magazine  he  had  got  a  sketch  of  Macartney's  "  Embassy," 
the  memory  of  which  never  left  him.  Adam  Smith's 
"  Wealth  of  Nations,"  greatly  as  it  lay  out  of  his  course, 
he  had  also  fallen  in  with,  and  admired  and  understood 
and  remembered  so  far  as  he  had  any  business  with  it.  I 
once  wrote  him  about  my  being  in  Smithfield  Market 
seven  years  ago,  of  my  seeing  St.  Paul's.  Both  things  in- 
terested him  heartily  and  dwelt  with  him.  I  had  hoped 
to  tell  him  much  of  what  I  saw  in  this  second  visit,  and 
that  many  a  long  cheerful  talk  would  have  given  us  both 
some  sunny  hours,  but  es  kojinte  nimmer  seyji.  Patience  ! 
hope  ! 

At  the  same  time  he  had  the  most  entire  and  open  con- 
tempt for  all  idle  tattle  ;  what  he  called  clatter.  Any 
talk  that  had  meaning  in  it  he  could  listen  to.  What  had 
no  meaning  in  it — above  all,  what  seemed  false — he  abso- 
lutely could  and  would  not  hear,  but  abruptly  turned 
aside  from  it,  or  if  that  might  not  suit,  with  the  besom 
of  destruction  swept  it  far  away  from  him.  Long  may  we 
remember  his  "  I  don't  believe  thee  ;  "  his  tongue-paral- 
ysing, cold,  indifferent  "  Hah  !  "  I  should  say  of  him  as 
I  did  of  our  sister  '  whom  we  lost,  that  he  seldom  or  never 
spoke  except  actually  to  convey  an  idea.  Measured  by 
quantity  of  words,  he  was  a  talker  of  fully  average  copi- 
ousness \  by  extent  of  meaning  communicated,  he  was 

'  Margaret,  who  died  in  1831. 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  II 

the  most  copious  I  have  Hstcncd  to.  How  in  few  sen- 
tences he  would  sketch  you  off  an  entire  biography,  an 
entire  object  or  transaction,  keen,  clear,  rugged,  genuine, 
completely  rounded  in.  His  words  came  direct  from  the 
heart  by  the  inspiration  of  the  moment. 

"  It  is  no  idle  tale,"  he  said  to  some  laughing  rustics 
while  stating  in  his  strong  way  some  complaint  against 
them,  and  their  laughter  died  into  silence.  Dear,  good 
father  !  There  looked  honestly  through  those  clear  ear- 
nest eyes  a  sincerity  that  compelled  belief  and  regard. 
"  Moffat,"  said  he  one  day  to  an  incorrigible  reaper, 
"  thou  hast  had  every  feature  of  a  bad  shearer — high, 
rough,  and  little  on't.  Thou  maun  alter  thy  figure  or 
slant  the  bog,"  pointing  to  the  man's  road  homewards. 

He  was  irascible,  choleric,  and  we  all  dreaded  his 
wrath,  yet  passion  never  mastered  him  or  maddened  him. 
It  rather  inspired  him  with  new  vehemence  of  insight  and 
more  piercing  emphasis  of  wisdom.  It  must  have  been  a 
bold  man  that  did  not  quail  before  that  face  when  glowing 
with  indignation,  grounded,  for  so  it  ever  was,  on  the 
sense  of  right  and  in  resistance  of  wrong.  More  than 
once  has  he  lifted  up  his  strong  voice  in  tax  courts  and  the 
like  before  "the  gentlemen"  (what  he  knew  of  highest 
among  men,)  and  rending  asunder  ofificial  sophisms,  thun- 
dered even  into  their  deaf  ears  the  indignant  sentence  of 
natural  justice  to  the  conviction  of  all.  Oh,  why  did  we 
laugh  at  these  things  while  we  loved  them  ?  There  is  a 
tragic  greatness  and  sacredness  in  them  now. 

I  can  call  my  father  a  brave  man  [ein  tapferer).  Man's 
face  he  did  not  fear ;  God  he  always  feared.     His  rever- 

•    / 


ll 


12  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

ence  I  think  was  considerably  mixed  with  fear  ;  yet  not 
slavish  fear,  rather  awe,  as  of  unutterable  depths  of  silence 
through  which  flickered  a  trembling  hope.  How  he  used 
to  speak  of  death,  especially  in  late  years — or  rather  to  be 
silent,  and  look  at  it !  There  was  no  feeling  in  him  here 
that  he  cared  to  hide.  He  trembled  at  the  really  terrible  ; 
the  mock  terrible  he  cared  nought  for.  That  last  act  of 
his  life,  when  in  the  last  agony,  with  the  thick  ghastly  va- 
pours of  death  rising  round  him  to  choke  him,  he  burst 
through  and  called  with  a  man's  voice  on  the  Great  God 
to  have  mercy  on  him — that  was  like  the  epitome  and 
concluding  summary  of  his  whole  life.  God  gave  him 
strength  to  wrestle  with  the  King  of  Terrors,  and  as  it 
were  even  then  to  prevail.  All  his  strength  came  from 
God  and  ever  sought  new  nourishment  there.  God  be 
thanked  for  it. 

Let  me  not  mourn  that  my  father's  force  is  all  spent, 
that  his  valour  wars  no  longer.  Has  it  not  gained  the  vic- 
tory ?  Let  me  imitate  him  rather.  Let  his  courageous 
heart  beat  anew  in  me,  that  when  oppression  and  opposi- 
tion unjustly  threaten,  I  too  may  rise  with  his  spirit  to 
front  them  and  subdue  them. 

—  On  the  whole,  ought  I  not  to  rejoice  that  God  was 
pleased  to  give  me  such  a  father ;  that  from  earliest  years 
I  had  the  example  of  a  real  Man  of  God's  own  making  con- 
tinually before  me  ?  Let  me  learn  of ///w.  Let  me  write 
my  books  as  he  built  his  houses,  and  walk  as  blamelessly 
through  this  shadow  world  ;  if  God  so  will,  to  rejoin  him 
at  last.  Amen. 
I      Alas  !  such  is  the  mis-education  of  these  days,  it  is 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  1 3 

only  among  those  that  are  called  the  uneducated  classes  ) 
— those  educated  by  experience — that  you  can  look  for  a_J 
Man.     Even  among  these,  such  a  sight  is  growing  daily 
rarer.     My  father,  in  several  respects,  has  not,  that  I  can 
think  of,  left  his  fellow.      Ultiinus  Romanoriim.     Perhaps 
among  Scottish  peasants  what  Samuel  Johnson  was  among 
English  authors^     I   have  a  sacred  pride  in  my  peasant 
father,  and  would  not  exchange  him,  even  now,  for  any 
king  known  to  me.       Gold  and  the   guinea   stamp— the 
Man  and  the  clothes  of  the  man.     Let  me  thank  God  for 
that  greatest  of  blessings,  and  strive  to  live  worthily  of  it. 
Though  from  the  heart,  and  practically  even  more  than 
in  words,  an  independent  man,  he  was  by  no  means  an 
insubordinate  one.     His  bearing  towards  his  superiors  I 
consider  noteworthy — of  a  piece  with  himself.     I  think  in 
early  life,  when  working  in  Springhill  for  a  Sir  W.  Max- 
well— the  grandfather  of  the  present  Baronet — he  had  got 
an  early  respect  impressed  upon  him  for  the  character  as 
well  as  station  of  a  gentleman.     I  have  heard  him  often 
describe  the  grave  wisdom  and  dignified  deportment  of 
that  Maxwell  as  of  a  true  "  ruler  of  the  people."     It  used 
to  remind  me  of  the  gentlemen  in  Goethe.     Sir  William,, 
like  those  he  ruled  over,  and  benignantly  or  at  least  grace- 
fully and  earnestly  governed,  has  passed  away.     But  even 
for  the  mere  clothes-screens  of  rank,  my  father  testified 
no    contempt.     He  spoke  of  them    in  public   or  private 
without  acerbity ;   testified  for  them  the  outward  defer- 
ence which  custom  and  convenience  prescribed,  and  felt 
no  degradation  therein.     Their  inward  claim  to   regard 
was  a  thing  which  concerned  them,  not  him.     I  love  to 


14  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

figure  him  addressing  these  men,  with  bared  head,  by  the 
title  of"  your  honour,"  with  a  manner  respectful  yet  un- 
embarrassed ;  a  certain  manful  dignity  looking  through 
his  own  fine  face,  with  his  noble  grey  head  bent  patiently 
to  the,  alas  !  unworthy.  Such  conduct  is,  perhaps,  no 
longer  possible. 

Withal,  he  had  in  general  a  grave  natural  politeness. 
'  I  have  seen  him,  when  the  women  were  perhaps  all  in 
anxiety  about  the  disorder,  etc.,  usher  men  in  with  true 
hospitality  into  his  mean  house,  without  any  grimace  of 
/  apologies,  or  the  smallest  seeming  embarrassment.  Were 
Wthe  house  but  a  cabin,  it  was  his,  and  they  were  welcome 
to  him,  and  what  it  held.  This  was  again  the  man.  His 
life  was  "no  idle  tale;"  not  a  lie  but  a  truth,  which 
whoso  liked  was  welcome  to  come  and  examine.  "  An 
earnest  toilsome  life,"  which  had  also  a  serious  issue. 

The  more  I  reflect  on  it,  the  more  I  must  admire  how 
completely  nature  had  taught  him-;  how  completely  he 
was  devoted  to  his  work,  to  the  task  of  his  life,  and  con- 
tent to  let  all  pass  by  unheeded  that  had  not  relation  to 
this.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  for  example,  that  though  a  man 
of  such  openness  and  clearness,  he  had  never,  I  believe, 
read  three  pages  of  Burns'  poems.  Not  even  when  all 
about  him  became  noisy  and  enthusiastic,  I  the  loudest, 
on  that  matter,  did  he  feel  it  worth  while  to  renew  his  in- 
vestigation of  it,  or  once  turn  his  face  towards  it.  The 
poetry  he  liked  (he  did  not  call  it  poetry)  was  truth,  and 
the  wisdom  of  reality.  Burns,  indeed,  could  have  done 
NJ  nothing  for  him.  As  high  a  greatness  hung  over  his 
world  as  over  that  of  Burns — the  ever-present  greatness 


JAMES    CARLYLE.  1 5 

of  the  Infinite  itself.  Neither  was  he,  hke  Burns,  called  to 
rebel  against  the  world,  but  to  labour  patiently  at  his  task 
there,  uniting  the  possible  with  the  necessary  to  bring  out 
the  real,  wherein  also  lay  an  ideal.  Burns  could  not  have 
in  any  way  strengthened  him  in  this  course  ;  and  there- 
fore was  for  him  a  phenomenon  merely.  Nay,  rumour 
had  been  so  busy  with  Burns,  and  destiny  and  his  own 
desert  had  in  very  deed  so  marred  his  name,  that  the 
good  rather  avoided  him.  Yet  it  was  not  with  aversion 
that  my  father  regarded  Burns  ;  at  worst  with  indiffer- 
ence and  neglect.  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  once  seeing 
him  standing  in  "  Rob  Scott's  smithy"  (at  Ecclefechan, 
no  doubt  superintending  some  work).  He  heard  one  say, 
"  There  is  the  poet  Burns."  He  went  out  to  look,  and 
saw  a  man  with  boots  on,  like  a  well-dressed  farmer,  walk- 
ing down  the  village  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  burn. 
This  was  all  the  relation  these  two  men  ever  had  ;  they 
were  very  nearly  coevals.'  I  knew  Robert  Burns,  and  I 
knew  my  father.  Yet  were  you  to  ask  me  which  had  the 
greater  natural  faculty,  I  might  perhaps  actually  pause 
before  replying.  Burns  had  an  infinitely  wider  education, 
my  father  a  far  wholesomer.  Besides,  the  one  was  a  man 
of  musical  utterance  ;  the  other  wholly  a  man  of  action, 
with  speech  subservient  thereto.  Never,  of  all  the  men 
I  have  seen,  has  one  come  personally  in  my  way  in  whom 
the  endowment  from  nature  and  the  arena  from  fortune 
were  so  utterly  out  of  all  proportion.  I  have  said  this 
often,  and  partly  know  it.  As  a  man  of  speculation — had 
culture  ever  unfolded  him — he  must  have  gone  wild  and 
'  Burns  died  the  year  after  Thomas  Carlyle  was  born. 


V 


l6  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

desperate  as  Burns  ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  conduct,  and 
work  keeps  all  right.  What  strange  shapeable  creatures 
we  are  ! 

My  father's  education  was  altogether  of  the  worst  and 
most  limited.  I  believe  he  was  never  more  than  three 
months  at  any  school.  What  he  learned  there  showed 
what  he  might  have  learned.  A  solid  knowledge  of 
arithmetic,  a  fine  antique  handwriting — these,  with  other 
limited  practical  etceteras,  were  all  the  things  he  ever 
heard  mentioned  as  excellent.  He  had  no  room  to  strive 
for  more.  Poetry,  fiction  in  general,  he  had  universally 
seen  treated  as  not  only  idle,  but  false  and  criminal.  This 
was  the  spiritual  element  he  had  lived  in,  almost  to  old 
age.  But  greatly  his  most  important  culture  he  had 
gathered — and  this,  too,  by  his  own  endeavours — from 
the  better  part  of  the  district,  the  religious  men ;  to 
whom,  as  to  the  most  excellent,  his  own  nature  gradually 
.attached  and  attracted  him.  He  was  religious  with  the 
consent  of  his  whole  faculties.  Without  religion  he  would 
have  been  nothing,  Indeed,  his  habit  of  intellect  was 
thoroughly  free,  and  even  incredulous.  And  strongly 
enough  did  the  daily  example  of  this  work  afterwards  on 
me.  "Putting  out  the  natural  eye  of  his  mind  to  see 
better  with  a  telescope" — this  was  no  scheme  for  him. 
But  he  was  in  Annandale,  and  it  was  above  fifty  years 
ago,'  and  a  Gospel  was  still  preached  there  to  the  heart  of 
a  man  in  the  tones  of  a  man.  Religion  was  the  pole-star 
for  my  father.  Rude  and  uncultivated  as  he  otherwise 
was,  it  made  him  and  kept  him  "  in  all  points  a  man." 

'  Written  in  1832. 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  1/ 

Oh  !  when  I  think  that  all  the  area  in  boundless  space  a^ 
he  had  seen  was  limited  to  a  circle  of  some  fifty  miles 
diameter  (he  never  in  his  life  was  farther  or  elsewhere  so 
far  from  home  as  at  Craigenputtoch),  and  all  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  boundless  time  was  derived  from  his  Bible  /^ 
and  what  the  oral  memories  of  old  men  could  give  him, 
and  his  own  could  gather  ;  and  yet,  that  he  was  such,  I 
could  take  shame  to  myself.  I  feel  to  my  father — so 
great  though  so  neglected,  so  generous  also  towards  me — 
a  strange  tenderness,  and  mingled  pity  and  reverence 
peculiar  to  the  case,  infinitely  soft  and  near  my  heart. 
Was  he  not  a  sacrifice  to  me  ?  Had  I  stood  in  his  place, 
could  he  not  have  stood  in  mine,  and  more  ?  Thou  good 
father  !  well  may  I  for  ever  honour  thy  memory.  Surely 
that  act  was  not  without  its  reward.  And  was  not  nature 
great,  out  of  such  materials  to  make  such  a  man  ? 

Though  genuine  and  coherent,  "  living  and  life-giving," 
he  was,  nevertheless,  but  half  developed.  We  had  all  tc? 
complain  that  we  durst  not  freely  love  him.  His  heart 
seemed  as  if  walled  in  ;  he  had  not  the  free  means  to  un- 
bosom himself.  My  mother  has  owned  to  me  that  she 
could  never  understand  him  ;  that  her  affection  and  (with 
ah  their  little  strifes)  her  admiration  of  him  was  obstructed. 
It  seemed  as  if  an  atmosphere  of  fear  repelled  us  from 
him.  To  me  it  was  especially  so.  Till  late  years,  when 
he  began  to  respect  me  more,  and,  as  it  were,  to  look  up 
to  me  for  instruction,  for  protection  (a  relation  unspeaka- 
bly beautiful),  I  was  ever  more  or  less  awed  and  chilled 
before  him.  My  heart  and  tongue  played  freely  only 
with  my  mother.     He  had  an  air  of  deepest  gravity,  even 


l8  JAMES    CARLYLE. 

sternness.  Yet  he  could  laugh  with  his  whole  throat,  and 
V  his  whole  heart.  I  have  often  seen  him  weep,  too  ;  his 
voice  would  thicken  and  his  lips  curve  while  reading  the 
Bible.  He  had  a  merciful  heart  to  real  distress,  though 
he  hated  idleness,  and  for  imbecility  and  fatuity  had  no 
tolerance.  Once-;-and  I  think  once  only — I  saw  him  in  a 
passion  of  tears.  It  was  when  the  remains  of  my  mother's 
fever  hung  upon  her,  in  1817,  and  seemed  to  threaten  the 
extinction  of  her  reason.  We  were  all  of  us  nigh  des- 
perate, and  ourselves  mad.  He  burst  at  last  into  quite  a 
torrent  of  grief,  cried  piteously,  and  threw  himself  on  the 
floor  and  lay  moaning.  I  wondered,  and  had  no  words, 
^  no  tears.  It  was  as  if  a  rock  of  granite  had  melted,  and 
was  thawing  into  water.  What  unknown  seas  of  feeling 
lie  in  man,  and  will  from  time  to  time  break  through  ! 

He  was  no  niggard,  but  truly  a  wisely  generous  econo- 
mist. He  paid  his  men  handsomely  and  with  overplus. 
"He  had  known  poverty  in  the  shape  of  actual  want  (in 
boyhood)  and  never  had  one  penny  which  he  knew  not 
well  how  he  had  come  by,  ("  picked,"  as  he  said,  "  out  of 
the  hard  stone,")  yet  he  ever  parted  with  money  as  a  man 
that  knew  when  he  was  getting  money's  worth  ;  that  could 
give  also,  and  with  a  frank  liberality  when  the  fit  occasion 
called.  I  remember  with  the  peculiar  kind  of  tenderness 
that  attaches  to  many  similar  things  in  his  life,  one,  or 
rather,  I  think,  two  times,  when  he  sent  inc  to  buy  a 
/  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tobacco,  to  give  to  some  old  wo- 
\|  men,  whom  he  had  had  gathering  potatoes  for  him.  He 
nipt  off  for  each  a  handsome  leash,  and  handed  it  her  by 
way  of  over  and  above.     This  was  a  common  principle 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  I9 

with  him.  I  must  have  been  twelve  or  thirteen  when  I 
fetched  this  tobacco.  I  love  to  think  of  it.  "  The  httle 
that  a  just  man  hath."  The  old  women  are  now  perhaps 
all  dead.     He  too  is  dead,  but  the  gift  still  lives. 

He  was  a  man  singularly  free  from  affectation.  The 
feeling  that  he  had  not  he  could  in  no  wise  pretend  to 
have  ;  however  ill  the  want  of  it  might  look,  he  simply 
would  not  and  did  not  put  on  the  show  of  it. 

Singularly  free  from  envy  I  may  reckon  him  too,  the 
rather  if  I  consider  his  keen  temper  and  the  value  he  nat- 
urally (as  a  man  wholly  for  action)  set  upon  success  in 
life.  Others  that  (by  better  fortune  ;  none  was  more  in- 
dustrious or  more  prudent)  had  grown  richer  than  he,  did 
not  seem  to  provoke  the  smallest  grudging  in  him.  They 
were  going  their  path,  he  going  his  ;  one  did  not  impede 
the  other.  He  rather  seemed  to  look  at  such  with  a  kind 
of  respect,  a  desire  to  learn  from  them — at  lowest  with 
indifference. 

In  like  manner,  though  he  above  all  things  (indeed  in 
strictness  solely)  admired  talent^  he  seemed  never  to  have 
measured  himself  anxiously  against  anyone  ;  :iiias_£Qjit£ii: 
to  be  taught  by:  whosoever  could  <-»-^^i^  v>i'm,  Qn^  r.ri-wr> 
men,  immeasurably  his  inferiors  in  faculty,  he,  I  do  be- 
lieve,  looked  up  to  and  thought  with  perfect  composure 
abler  minds  than  himself 

Complete  at  the  same  time  was  his  confidence  in  his 
own  judgment  Avhen  it  spoke  to  him  decisively.  He  was 
one  of  those  few  that  could  believe  and  know  as  well  as 
enquire  and  be  of  opinion.  When  I  remember  how  much 
he  admired  intellectual  force,  how  much  he  had  of  it  him- 


20  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

self,  cind  yet  how  unconsciously  and  contentedly  he  gave 
others  credit  for  superiority,  I  again  see  the  healthy  spirit 
of  the  genuine  man.  Nothing  could  please  him  better 
than  a  well-ordered  discourse  of  reason,  the  clear  solution 
and  exposition  of  any  object,  and  he  knew  well  in  such 
cases  when  the  nail  had  been  hit,  and  contemptuously 
enough  recognised  when  it  had  been  missed.  He  has 
said  of  a  bad  preacher,  "  he  was  like  a  fly  wading  among 
tar."  Clearness,  emphatic  clearness,  was  his  highest 
category  of  man's  thinking  power.  He  delighted  always 
\  /  to  hear  good  argument.  He  would  often  say,  "  I  would 
like  to  hear  thee  argue  with  him."  He  said  this  of  Jeffrey 
and  me,  with  an  air  of  such  simple  earnestness,  not  two 
years  ago  (1830),  and  it  was  his  true  feeling.  I  have 
often  pleased  him  much  by  arguing  with  men  (as  many 
years  ago  I  was  prone  to  do)  in  his  presence.  He  re- 
joiced greatly  in  my  success,  at  all  events  in  my  dexter- 
ity and  manifested  force.  Others  of  us  he  admired  for 
our  "  activity,"  our  practical  valour  and  skill,  all  of  us 
(generally  speaking)  for  our  decent  demeanour  in  the 
world.  It  is  now  one  of  my  greatest  blessings  (for  which 
I  would  thank  Heaven  from  the  heart)  that  he  lived  to  see 
me,  through  various  obstructions,  attain  some  look  of 
doing  well.  He  had  "  educated"  me  against  much  ad- 
vice, I  believe,  and  chiefly,  if  not  solely,  from  his  own 
noble  faith.  James  Bell,  one  of  our  wise  men,  had  told 
him,  "  Educate  a  boy,  and  he  grows  up  to  despise  his 
!  ignorant  parents."  My  father  once  told  me  this,  and 
■  added,  "  Thou  hast  not  done  so  ;  God  be  thanked  for  it." 
I  have  reason  to    think  my  father  was  proud  of  me  (not 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  21 

vain,  for  he  never,  except  when  provoked,  openly  bragged 
of  us)  ;  that  here  too  he  Hvcd  to  see  the  pleasure  of  the 
Lord  prosper  in  his  hands.  Oh,  was  it  not  a  happiness 
for  me  !  The  fame  of  all  this  planet  were  not  henceforth 
so  precious. 

He  was  thrifty,  patient,  careless  of  outward  accommo- 
dation, had  a  Spartan  indifference  to  all  that.  When  he 
quarrelled  about  such  things  it  was  rather  because  some 
human  viismanagement  seemed  to  look  through  the  evil. 
Food  and  all  else  were  simply  and  solely  there  as  the 
means /^r  doing  work.  We  have  lived  for  months  of  old 
(and  when  he  was  not  any  longer  poor),  because  by  our- 
selves, on  porridge  and  potatoes,  with  no  other  condi- 
ment than  what  our  own  cow  yielded.  Thus  are  we  not 
now  all  beggars,  as  the  most  like  us  have  become.  Mother 
and  father  were  assiduous,  abstemious,  frugal  without 
stinginess.  They  shall  not  want  their  reward.  Both  still 
knew  what  they  were  doing  in  this  world,  and  why  they 
were  here.  "  Man's  chief  end,"  my  father  could  have 
answered  from  the  depths  of  his  soul,  "  is  to  glorify  God 
and  enjoy  Him  forever."  By  this  light  he  walked,  choos- 
ing his  path,  fitting  prudence  to  principle  with  wonderful 
skill  and  manliness  ;  through  "  the  ruins  of  a  falling  era," 
not  once  missing  his  footing.  Go  thou,  whom  by  the 
hard  toil  of  his  arms  and  his  mind  he  has  struggled  to 
enlighten  better  ;  go  thou,  and  do  likewise. 

His  death  was  unexpected  ?  Not  so  ;  every  morning 
and  every  evening,  for  perhaps  sixty  years,  he  had  prayed 
to  the  Great  Father  in  words  which  I  shall  now  no  more 
hear  him  impressively  pronounce,  "  Prepare  us  for  those 


22  JAMES   CAKLYLE. 

solemn  events,  death,  judgment,  and  eternity."  He 
would  pray  also,  "  Forsake  us  not  now  when  we  are  old 
and  our  heads  grown  grey."     God  did  not  forsake  him. 

Ever  since  I  can  remember,  his  honoured  head  was 
grey ;  indeed  he  must  have  been  about  forty  when  I  was 
born.  It  was  a  noble  head ;  very  large,  the  upper  part 
of  it  strikingly  like  that  of  the  poet  Goethe  :  the  mouth 
again  bearing  marks  of  unrefinement,  shut  indeed  and 
significant,  yet  loosely  compressed  (as  I  have  seen  in  the 
firmest  men  if  used  to  hard  manual  labour),  betokening 
depth,  passionateness,  force  ;  all  in  an  element  not  of  lan- 
guor, yet  of  toil  and  patient  perennial  endurance.  A  face 
full  of  meaning '  and  earnestness,  a  man  of  strength  and 
a  man  of  toil.  Jane  (Mrs.  Carlyle)  took  a  profile  of  him 
vi^hen  she  was  last  in  Annandale.  It  is  the  only  memorial 
■we  have  left,  and  worth  much  to  us.  He  was  short  of 
stature,  yet  shorter  than  usual  only  in  the  limbs  ;  of  great 
muscular  strength,  far  more  than  even  his  strong-built 
frame  gave  promise  of.  In  all  things  he  was  emphati- 
cally temperate  ;  through  life  guilty  (more  than  can  be 
said  of  almost  any  man)  of  no  excess. 

He  was  born  (I  think)  in  the  year  1757,  at  a  place 
called  Brownknowe,  a  small  farm  not  far  from  Burnswark 
Hill  in  Annandale,  I  have  heard  him  describe  the  an- 
guish of  mind  he  felt  when  leaving  this  place,  and  taking 
farewell  of  a  "big  stone"  whereon  he  had  been  wont  to 
sit  in  early  boyhood  tending  the  cattle.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  thorn  tree  near  it.     His  heart,  he  said,  was  like  to 

'  Carlyle  breaks  off  for  a  moment  and  writes  these  words  :  "  About  this 
hour  is  the  funeral.     Irving  enters.     Unsatisfactory."     lie  then  goes  on. 


i 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  23 

burst ;  they  were  removing  to  Sibbaldry  Side,  another 
farm  in  the  valley  of  Dryfe.  He  was  come  to  full  man- 
hood. The  family  was  exposed  to  great  privations  while 
at  Brownknowe.  The  mother,  Mary  Gillespie  (she  had 
relations  at  Dryfesdale)  was  left  with  her  children,  and 
had  not  always  meal  to  make  them  porridge.  My  father 
was  the  second  son  and  fourth  child.  My  grandfather, 
Thomas  Carlyle,  after  whom  I  am  named,  was  an  honest, 
vehement,  adventurous,  but  not  an  industrious  man.  He 
used  to  collect  vigorously  and  rigorously  a  sum  sufficient 
for  his  half  year's  rent  (probably  some  five  or  six  pounds), 
lay  this  by,  and,  for  the  rest,  leaving  the  mother  with  her 
little  ones  to  manage  very  much  as  they  could,  would 
meanwhile  amuse  himself,  perhaps  hunting,  most  prob- 
ably with  the  Laird  of  Bridekirk  (a  swashbuckler  of  those 
days,  composer  of  "  Bridekirk's  Hunting  "),  partly  in  the 
character  of  kinsman,  partly  of  attendant  and  henchman. 
I  have  heard  my  father  describe  the  shifts  they  were  re- 
duced to  at  home.  Once,  he  said,  meal,  which  had  per- 
haps been  long  scarce,  and  certainly  for  some  time  want- 
ing, arrived  at  last  late  at  night.  The  mother  proceeded 
on  the  spot  to  make  cakes  of  it,  and  had  no  fuel  but  straw 
that  she  tore  from  the  beds  (straw  lies  under  the  chaff 
sacks  we  all  slept  on)  to  do  it  with.  The  children  all  rose 
to  eat.  Potatoes  were  little  in  use  then;  a  "  wechtful " 
was  stored  up  to  be  eaten  perhaps  about  Halloween,  My 
father  often  told  us  how  he  once,  with  a  providence  early 
manifested,  got  possession  of  four  potatoes,  and  thinking- 
that  a  time  of  want  might  come,  hid  them  carefully  against 
the  evil  day.     He  found  them  long  after  all  grown  to- 


24  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

gethcr  ;  they  had  not  been  needed.  I  think  he  once  told 
us  his  first  short  clothes  were  a  hull  made  mostly  or 
wholly  of  leather.  We  all  only  laughed,  for  it  is  now 
long  ago.  Thou  dear  father  !  Through  what  stern  ob- 
structions was  thy  way  to  manhood  to  be  forced,  and  for 
us  and  for  our  travelling  to  be  made  smooth. 

My  grandfather,  whom  I  can  remember  as  a  slightish, 
wiry-looking  old  man,  had  not  possessed  the  wisdom  of  his 
son.  Yet  perhaps  he  was  more  to  be  pitied  than  blamed. 
His  mother,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  was  early  left 
a  widow  with  two  of  them,  in  the  parish,  perhaps  in  the 
village,  of  Middlebie.  Thomas,  the  elder,  became  a  joiner 
and  went  to  work  in  Lancashire,  perhaps  in  Lancaster, 
where  he  stayed  more  than  one  season.  He  once  returned 
home  in  winter,  partly  by  ice — skating  along  the  West- 
moreland and  Cumberland  lakes.  He  was  in  Dumfries- 
shire in  1745  :  saw  the  Highlanders  come  through  Eccle- 
fechan  over  the  Border  heights  as  they  went  down  :  was 
at  Dumfries  among  them  as  they  returned  back  in  flight. 
He  had  gone,  by  the  Lady  of  Bridekirk's  request,  to  look 
after  the  Laird,  whom,  as  a  Whig  of  some  note,  they  had 
taken  prisoner.  His  whole  adventures  there. he  had  mi- 
nutely described  to  his  children  (I  too  have  heard  him 
speak,  but  briefly  and  indistinctly,  of  them)  :  by  my 
uncle  Frank  I  once  got  a  full  account  of  the  matter, 
which  shall  perhaps  be  inserted  elsewhere.  He  worked 
as  carpenter,  I  know  not  how  long,  about  Middlebie  ; 
then  laid  aside  that  craft  (except  as  a  side  business,  for 
he  always  had  tools  which  I  myself  have  assisted  him  in 
grinding)  and  went  to  Brownknowe  to  farm.    In  his  latter 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  25 

days  he  was  chiefly  supported  by  my  father,  to  whom  I  /n 
remember  once  hearing  him  say,  with  a  half-choked  trem- 
ulous palsied  voice,  "  Thou  hast  been  a  good  son  to  me." 
He  died  in  1804.  I  well  remember  the  funeral,  which  I 
was  at,  and  that  I  read  (being  then  a  good  reader), 
'*  MacEvven  on  the  Types"  (which  I  have  not  seen  since, 
but  then  partially  understood  and  even  liked  for  its  glib 
smoothness)  to  the  people  sitting  at  the  wake.  The 
funeral  was  in  time  of  snow.  All  is  still  very  clear  to 
me.  The  three  brothers,  my  father,  Frank,  and  Tom, 
spoke  together  in  the  dusk  on  the  street  of  Ecclefechan, 
I  looking  up  and  listening.  Tom  proposed  that  he  would 
bear  the  whole  expense,  as  he  had  been  "rather  back- 
ward during  his  life,"  which  offer  was  immediately  re- 
jected. 

Old  Thomas  Carlyle  had  been  proud  and  poor.  No 
doubt  he  was  discontented  enough.  Industry  was  perhaps 
more  difficult  in  Annandale  then  (this  I  do  not  think  very 
likely).  At  all  events  the  man  in  honour  (the  man)  of 
those  days  in  that  rude  border  country  was  a  drinker  and 
hunter;  above  all,  a  striker.  My  grandfather  did  not 
drink,  but  his  stroke  was  ever  as  ready  as  his  word,  and 
both  were  sharp  enough.  He  was  a  fiery  man,  irascible, 
indomitable,  of  the  toughness  and  sprin^ness  of  steel. 
An  old  market  brawl,  called  the  "  Ecclefechan  Dog-fight," 
in  which  he  was  a  principal,  survives  in  tradition  there  to 
this  day.  My  father,  who  in  youth  too  had  been  in  quar- 
rels, and  formidable  enough  in  them,  but  from  manhood 
upwards  abhorred  all  such  things,  never  once  spoke  to  us 
of  this.     My  grandfather  had  a  certain  religiousness  ;  but 


26  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

it  could  not  be  made  dominant  and  paramount.  His  life 
lay  in  two.  I  figure  him  as  very  miserable,  and  pardon 
(as  my  father  did)  all  his  irregularities  and  unreasons.  My 
father  liked  in  general  to  speak  of  him  when  it  came  in 
course.  He  told  us  sometimes  of  his  once  riding  down 
to  Annan  (when  a  boy)  behind  him,  on  a  sack  of  barley 
to  be  shipped,  for  which  there  was  then  no  other  mode 
of  conveyance  but  horseback.  On  arriving  at  Annan 
bridge  the  people  demanded  three-halfpence  of  toll  money. 
This  the  old  man  would  in  no  wise  pay,  for  tolls  were  then 
reckoned  pure  imposition,  got  soon  into  argument  about 
it,  and  rather  than  pay  it  turned  his  horse's  head  aside 
and  swam  the  river  at  a  dangerous  place,  to  the  extreme 
terror  of  his  boy.  Perhaps  it  was  on  this  same  occasion, 
while  the  two  were  on  the  shore  about  Whinnyrigg  with 
many  others  on  the  same  errand,  (for  a  boat  had  come  in, 
from  Liverpool  probably,  and  the  country  must  hasten  to 
ship)  that  a  lad  of  larger  size  jeered  at  the  little  boy  for 
his  ragged  coat,  etc.  Whereupon  his  father,  doubtless 
provoked  too,  gave  him  permission  to  fight  the  wrong- 
doer, which  he  did  and  with  victory.  "Man's  inhumanity 
to  man." 

I  must  not  dwell  on  these  things,  yet  will  mention  the 
other  brother,  my  grand-uncle  Francis,  still  remembered 
by  his  title,  "the  Captain  of  Middlebie."  He  was  bred 
a  shoemaker,  and  like  his  elder  brother  went  to  travel  for 
work  and  insight.  My  father  once  described  to  me  with 
pity  and  aversion  how  Francis  had  on  some  occasion 
taken  to  drinking  and  to  gaming  "  far  up  in  England  " 
(Bristol  ?),  had  lost  all  his  money  and  gone  to  bed  drunk. 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  2/ 

He  awoke  next  morning  in  horrors,  started  up,  stung  by 
the  serpent  of  remorse,  and  flinging  himself  out  of  bed, 
broke  his  leg  against  a  table  standing  near,  and  lay  .there 
sprawling,  and  had  to  lie  for  weeks,  with  nothing  to  pay 
the  shot.  Perhaps  this  was  the  crisis  of  his  life.  Perhaps 
it  was  to  pay  the  bill  of  this  very  tavern  that  he  went  and 
enlisted  himself  on  board  some  small-craft  man  of  war. 
A  mutiny  (as  I  have  heard)  took  place,  wherein  Francis 
Carlyle  with  great  daring  stood  by  the  Captain  and  quelled 
the  matter,  for  which  service  he  was  promoted  to  the 
command  of  a  revenue  ship,  and  sailed  therein  chiefly 
about  the  Solway  Seas,  and  did  feats  enough,  of  which 
perhaps  elsewhere.  He  had  retired  with  dignity  on  half- 
pay  to  his  native  Middlebie  before  my  birth.  I  never  saw 
him  but  once,  and  then  rather  memorably. 

My  grandfather  and  he,  owing  to  some  sort  of  cloud 
and  misunderstanding,  had  not  had  any  intercourse  for 
long  ;  in  which  division  the  two  families  had  joined.  But 
now,  when  old  Thomas  was  lying  on  his  probable,  and  as 
it  proved  actual,  deathbed,  the  old  rugged  sea-captain  re- 
lented, and  resolved  to  see  his  brother  yet  once  before 
he  died. 

He  came  in  a  cart  to  Ecclefechan  (a  great  enterprise  * 
then,  for  the  road  was  all  water-cut,  and  nigh  impassable 
with  roughness).  I  chanced  to  be  standing  by  when  he 
arrived.  He  was  a  grim,  broad,  to  me  almost  terrible 
man,  unwieldy  so  that  he  could  not  walk.  (My  brother 
John  is  said  to  resemble  him.  He  was  my  prototype 
of  Smollett's  Trunnion.)  They  lifted  him  up  the  steep 
straight  stairs  in  a  chair  to  the  room  of  the  dying  man. 


28  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

The  two  old  brothers  saluted  each  other,  hovering  over 
the  brink  of  the  grave.  They  were  both  above  eighty. 
In  some  twenty  minutes  the  arm-chair  was  seen  again  de- 
scending (my  father  bore  one  corner  of  it  in  front);  the 
old  man  had  parted  with  his  brother  for  the  last  time. 
He  went  away  with  few  words,  but  with  a  face  that  still 
dimly  haunts  me,  and  I  never  saw  him  more.  The  busi- 
ness at  the  moment  was  quite  unknown  to  me,  but  I 
gathered  it  in  a  day  or  two,  and  its  full  meaning  long 
afterwards  grew  clear  to  me.  Its  outward  phasis,  now 
after  some  twenty-eight  years,  is  plain  as  I  have  written. 
Old  Francis  also  died  not  long  afterwards. 

One  vague  tradition  I  will  mention,  that  our  humble 
forefathers  dwelt  long  as  farmers  at  Burrens,  the  old 
Roman  Station  in  Middlebie.  Once,  in  times  of  Border 
robbery,  some  Cumberland  cattle  had  been  stolen  and 
were  chased.  The  traces  of  them  disappeared  at  Burrens, 
and  the  angry  Cumbrians  demanded  of  the  poor  farmer 
what  had  become  of  them.  It  was  vain  for  him  to  an- 
swer and  aver  (truly)  that  he  knew  nothing  of  them,  had 
no  concern  with  them.  He  was  seized  by  the  people,  and 
despite  his  own  desperate  protestations,  despite  his  wife's 
shriekings  and  his  children's  cries,  he  was  hanged  on  the 
spot.  The  case  even  in  those  days  was  thought  piteous, 
and  a  perpetual  gift  of  the  little  farm  was  made  to  the 
poor  widow  as  some  compensation.  Her  children  and 
children's  children  continued  to  possess  it  till  their  title 
was  questioned  by  the  Duke  (of  Oueensberry),  and  they 
(perhaps  in  my  great-grandfather's  time,  about  1720)  were 
ousted.      Date   and   circumstances   for   the   tale    are   all 


JAMES    CARLYLE.  "  29 

wanting.  This  is  my  remotest  outlook  into  the  past,  and 
itself  but  a  cloudy  half  or  whole  hallucination  ;  farther  on 
there  is  not  even  a  hallucination.  I  now  return.  These 
things  are  secular  and  unsatisfactory. 

Bred  up  in  such  circumstances,  the  boys  were  accus- 
tomed to  all  manner  of  hardship,  and  must  trust  for  up- 
bringing to  nature,  to  the  scanty  precepts  of  their  poor 
mother,  and  to  what  seeds  or  influences  of  culture  were 
hanging  as  it  were  in  the  atmosphere  of  their  environ- 
ment. Poor  boys  !  they  had  to  scramble,  scraffle,  for 
their  very  clothes  and  food.  They  knit,  they  thatched 
for  hire,  above  all  they  hunted.  My  father  had  tried  all 
these  things  almost  in  boyhood.  Every  dell  and  burngate 
and  cleugh  of  that  district  he  had  traversed,  seeking 
hares  and  the  like.  He  used  to  tell  of  these  pilgrimages. 
Once  I  remember  his  gun-flint  was  tied  on  with  a  hat- 
band. He  was  a  real  hunter,  hke  a  wild  Indian,  from 
necessity.  The  hare's  flesh  was  food.  Hare-skins  (at 
some  sixpence  each)  would  accumulate  into  the  purchase 
money  of  a  coat.  All  these  things  he  used  to  speak  of 
without  either  boasting  or  complaining,  not  as  reproaches 
to  us,  but  as  historical  merely.  On  the  whole,  he  never 
complained  either  of  the  past,  the  present,  or  the  future. 
He  observed  and  accurately  noted  all :  he  made  the  most 
and  the  best  of  all.  His  hunting  years  were  not  useless 
to  him.  Misery  was  early  training  the  rugged  boy  into  a 
stoic,  that  one  day  he  might  be  the  assurance  of  a  Scot- 
tish man. 

One  Macleod,  Sandy  Macleod,  a  wandering  pensioner 
invalided  out  of  some  Highland  regiment  (who  had  served 


30  '  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

in  America,  I  must  think  with  General  Wolfe),  had 
strayed  to  Brownknowe  with  his  old  wife  and  taken  a 
cottage  of  my  grandfather.  He  with  his  wild  foreign 
legends  and  strange  half-idiotic,  half-genial  ways,  was  a 
great  figure  with  the  young  ones,  and  I  think  acted  not  a 
little  on  their  character, — least  of  any,  however,  on  my 
father,  whose  early  turn  for  the  practical  and  real  made 
him  more  heedless  of  Macleod  and  his  vagaries.  The  old 
pensioner  had  quaint  sayings  not  without  significance. 
Of  a  lachrymose  complaining  man,  for  example,  he  said 
(or  perhaps  to  him),  "  he  might  be  thankful  he  was  not  in 
purgatory." 

The  quaint  fashion  of  speaking,  assumed  for  humor, 
and  most  noticeable  in  my  uncle  Frank,  least  or  hardly  at 
all  in  my  father,  w^as  no  doubt  partly  derived  from  this 
old  wanderer,  who  was  much  about  their  house,  working 
for  his  rent  and  so  forth,  and  was  partly  laughed  at, 
partly  wondered  at,  by  the  young  ones.  Tinkers  alsD, 
nestling  in  outhouses,  making  pot  metal,  and  with  rude 
feuds  and  warfare,  often  came  upon  the  scene.  These, 
with  passing  Highland  drovers,  were  perhaps  their  only 
visitors.  Had  there  not  been  a  natural  goodness  and  in- 
destructible force  in  my  father,  I  see  not  how  he  could 
have  bodied  himself  forth  from  these  mean  impediments. 
I  suppose  good  precepts  were  not  wanting.  There  was 
the  Bible  to  read.  Old  John  Orr,  the  schoolmaster,  used 
from  time  to  time  to  lodge  with  them  ;  he  was  religious 
and  enthusiastic  (though  in  practice  irregular  with  drink). 
In  my  grandfather  also  there  seems  to  have  been  a  certain 
geniality ;    for   instance,    he    and    a   neighbour,   Thomas 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  3  I 

Hogg,  read  ''Anson's  Voyages,"  also  the  "Arabian 
Nights,"  for  which  latter  my  father,  armed  with  zealous 
conviction,  scrupled  not  to  censure  them  openly.  By  one 
means  or  another,  at  an  early  age  he  had  acquired  princi- 
ples, lights  that  not  only  flickered  but  shone  steadily  to 
guide  his  way. 

It  must  have  been  in  his  teens,  perhaps  rather  early, 
that  he  and  his  elder  brother  John,  with  William  Bell 
(afterwards  of  Wylie  Hill,  and  a  noted  drover),  and  his 
brother,  all  met  in  the  kiln  at  Relief  to  play  cards.  The 
corn  was  dried  then  at  home.  There  was  a  fire, 
therefore,  and  perhaps  it  was  both  heat  and  light.  The 
boys  had  played,  perhaps,  often  enough  for  trifling  stakes, 
and  always  parted  in  good  humour.  One  night  they  came 
to  some  disagreement.  My  father  spoke  out  what  was  in 
him  about  the  folly,  the  sinfulness,  of  quarrelling  over  a 
perhaps  sinful  amusement.  The  earnest  mind  persuaded 
other  minds.  They  threw  the  cards  into  the  fire,  and  (I 
think  the  younger  Bell  told  my  brother  James),  no  one  of 
the  four  ever  touched  a  card, again  through  life.  My 
father  certainly  never  hinted  at  such  a  game  since  I  knew 
him.  I  cannot  remember  that  I,  at  that  age,  had  any  such 
force  of  belief.     Which  of  us  can  ? 

\_Friday  night.  My  father  is  now  in  his  grave,  sleeping 
by  the  side  of  his  loved  ones,  his  face  to  the  east,  under 
the  hope  of  meeting  the  Lord  when  He  shall  come  to  judg- 
ment, when  the  times  shall  be  fulfilled.  Mysterious  life  ! 
Yes,  there  is  a  God  in  man.  Silence  !  since  thou  hast  no 
voice.  To  imitate  him,  I  will  pause  here  for  the  night. 
God  comfort  my  brother.     God  guard  them  all.] 


32  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

Of  old  John  Orr  I  must  say  another  word.  My  father, 
who  often  spoke  of  him,  though  not  so  much  latterly,  gave 
me  copious  description  of  that  and  other  antiquarian  mat- 
ters in  one  of  the  pleasantest  days  I  remember,  the  last 
time  but  one  (or  perhaps  two)  that  we  talked  together. 
A  tradition  of  poor  old  Orr,  as  of  a  man  of  boundless  love 
and  natural  worth,  still  faintly  lives  in  Annandale.  If  I 
mistake  not,  he  worked  also  as  a  shoemaker.  He  was 
heartily  devout,  yet  subject  to  fits  of  irregularity.  He 
would  vanish  for  weeks  into  obscure  tippling-houses  ;  then 
reappear  ghastly  and  haggard  in  body  and  mind,  shattered 
in  health,  torn  with  gnawing  remorse.  Perhaps  it  was  in 
some  dark  interval  of  this  kind  (he  was  already  old)  that 
he  bethought  him  of  his  father,  and  how  he  was  still  lying 
without  a  stone  of  memorial.  John  had  already  ordered 
a  tombstone  for  him,  and  it  was  lying  worked,  and  I  sup- 
pose, lettered  and  ready,  at  some  mason's  establishment 
(up  the  water  of  Mein),  but  never  yet  carried  to  the  place. 
Probably  Orr  had  not  a  shilling  of  money  to  hire  any  car- 
ter with,  but  he  hurried  off  to  the  spot,  and  desperately 
got  the  stone  on  his  back.  It  was  a  load  that  had  nigh 
killed  him.  He  had  to  set  it  down  ever  and  anon  and 
rest,  and  get  it  up  again.  The  night  fell.  I  think  some 
one  found  him  desperately  struggling  with  it  near  Main 
Hill,  and  assisted  him,  and  got  it  set  in  its  place. 

Though  far  above  all  quackery,  Orr  was  actually  em- 
ployed to  exorcise  a  house  ;  some  house  or  room  at  Or- 
chard, in  the  parish  of  Hoddam.  He  entered  the  haunted 
place  ;  was  closeted  in  it  for  some  time,  speaking  and 
praying.     The  ghost  was  really  and  truly  laid,  for  no  one 


1 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  33 

heard  more  of  it.  Beautiful  reverence,  even  of  the  rude 
and  ignorant,  for  the  infinite  nature  of  wisdom  in  the  in- 
finite life  of  man. 

Orr,  as  already  said,  used  to  come  much  about  Brown- 
knowe,  being  habitually  itinerant ;  and  (though  school- 
master of  Hoddam)  without  settled  home.  He  commonly, 
my  father  said,  slept  with  some  of  the  boys  ;  in  a  place 
where,  as  usual,  there  were  several  beds.  He  would  call 
out  from  the  bed  to  my  grandfather,  also  in  his,  "  Gude- 
man,  I  have  found  it ;  "  found  the  solution  of  some  prob- 
lem or  other,  perhaps  arithmetical,  which  they  had  been 
struggling  with  ;  or,  "  Gudeman,  what  d'ye  think  of  this  ?  " 

I  represent  him  to  myself  as  a  squat,  pursy  kind  of 
figure,  grim,  dusky  ;  the  blandest  and  most  bounteous  of 
cynics.  Also  a  form  of  the  past.  He  was  my  father's 
sole  teacher  in  schooling. 

It  might  be  in  the  year,  I  think,  1773,  that  one  Wil- 
liam Brown,  a  mason  from  Peebles,  came  down  into  An- 
nandale  to  do  some  work  ;  perhaps  boarded  in  my  grand- 
father's house  ;  at  all  events  married  his  eldest  daughter's 
child,  my  now  old  and  vehement,  then  young  and  spirited, 
Aunt  Fanny.  This  worthy  man,  whose  nephew  is  still 
minister  of  Eskdalemuir  (and  author  of  a  book  on  the 
Jews),  proved  the  greatest  blessing  to  that  household. 
My  father  would,  in  any  case,  have  saved  himself.  Of 
the  other  brothers,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  William 
Brown  was  not  the  primary  preserver.  They  all  learned 
to  be  masons  from  him,  or  from  one  another  ;  instead  of 
miscellaneous    labourers    and   hunters,    became    regular 

tradesmen,  the  best  in  all  their  district,  the  skilfullest  and 
3 


34  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

faithfullest,  and  the  best  rewarded   every  way.     Except 
my  father,  none  of  them  attained  a  decisive  rehgiousness. 
But  they  all  had  prudence  and  earnestness,  love  of  truth, 
industry,  and  the  blessings  it  brings.     My  father,  before 
my  time,  though  not  the  eldest,  had  become,  in  all  senses, 
the  head  of  the  house.     The  eldest  was  called  John.      He 
early  got  asthma,  and  for  long  could  not  work,  though  he 
got  his  share  of  the  wages  still.      I  can  faintly  remember 
Iiim  as  a  pallid,  sickly  figure  ;   and  even  one  or  two  in.sig- 
nificant  words,  and  the  breathless  tone  he  uttered  them 
in.     When  seized  with  extreme  fits  of  sickness  he  used  to 
gasp  out,  "Bring  Jamie  ;   do  send  for  Jamie."     He  died, 
I  think,  in  i8o2.      I  remember  the  funeral,  and  perhaps  a 
day  before  it,  how  an  ill-behaving  servant  wench  lifted  up 
the  coverlid  from  off  his  pale,  ghastly,  befilleted  head  to 
shov/  it  to  some  crony  of  hers  ;   unheeding  of  me,  who  was 
alone  with  them,  and  to  whom  the  sight  gave  a  new  pang 
of  horror.     He  was  the  father  of  two  sons  and  a  daughter, 
beside   whom  our  boyhood   was   passed,  none   of  whom 
have   come   to   anything    but    insignificance.      He  was    a 
well-doing  man,  and  left  them  Vv^ell ;  but  their  mother  was 
not  wise,  nor  they  decidedly  so.     The  youngest  brother 
— my  uncle  Tom — died  next ;  a  fiery,   passionate,   self-se- 
cluded, warm,  loving,  genuine  soul,  without  fear  and  with^ 
out  guile  :   of  whom  it  is  recorded,  he  never  from  the  first 
tones  of  speech,  "  told  any  lies."     A  true  old-Roman  soul, 
yet  so  marred  and  stunted,  who  well  deserves  a  chapter 
to  himself,  especially  from  me,  who  so  lovingly  admired 
him.      He  departed  in  my  father's  house,  in  my  presence, 
in  the  year  1815,  the  first  death  I  had  ever  understood  and 


JAMES   CARLYLE,  35 

laid  with  its  whole  emphasis  to  heart.  Frank  followed 
next,  at  an  interval  of  some  five  years  ;  a  quaint,  social, 
cheerful  man,  of  less  earnestness  but  more  openness,  fond 
of  genealogies,  old  historic  poems,  queer  sayings,  and  all 
curious  and  humane  things  he  could  come  at. 

This  made  him  the  greatest  favourite.  The  rest  were 
rather  feared  ;  my  father,  ultimately  at  least,  universally 
feared  and  respected.  Frank  left  two  sons,  as  yet  young  ; 
one  of  whom,  my  namesake,  gone  to  be  a  lawyer,  is 
rather  clever,  how  clever  I  have  not  fully  seen.  All  these 
brothers  were  men  of  evidently  rather  peculiar  endowment. 
They  were  (consciously)  noted  for  their  brotherly  affec- 
tion and  coherence,  for  their  hard  sayings  and  hard  strik- 
ings,  which  only  my  father  ever  grew  heartily  to  detest. 
All  of  them  became  prosperous  ;  got  a  name  and  posses- 
sions in  their  degree.  It  was  a  kindred  warmly  liked,  I 
believe,  by  those  near  it ;  by  those  at  a  distance,  viewed 
at  worst  and  lowest,  as  something  dangerous  to  meddle 
with,  something  not  to  be  meddled  with. 

What  are  the  rich  or  the  poor  ?  and  how  do  the  sim- 
ple annals  of  the  poor  differ  from  the  complex  annals  of 
the  rich,  were  they  never  so  rich  ?  What  is  thy  attain- 
ment compared  with  an  Alexander's,  a  Mahomet's,  a 
Napoleon's  ?  And  what  was  theirs  ?  A  temporary  frac- 
tion of  this  planetkin,  the  whole  round  of  which  is  but  a 
sandgrain  in  the  all,  its  whole  duration  but  a  moment  in 
eternity.  The  poorer  life  or  the  rich  one  are  but  the 
larger  or  smaller  (very  little  smaller)  letters  in  which  we 
write  the  apophthegms  and  golden  sayings  of  life.  It 
may  be  a  false  saying  or  it  may  be  a  true  one.      There 


36  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

lies  it  all.     This  is  of  quite  infinite  moment ;  the  rest  is, 
verily  and  indeed,  of  next  to  none. 

Perhaps  my  father  was  William  Brown's  -first  appren- 
tice. Somewhere  about  his  sixteenth  year,  early  in  the 
course  of  the  engagement,  work  grew  scarce  in  Annan- 
dale.  The  two  "  slung  their  tools  "  (mallets  and  irons 
hung  in  two  equipoised  masses  over  the  shoulder),  and 
crossed  the  hills  into  Nithsdale  to  Auldgarth,  where  a 
bridge  was  building.  This  was  my  father's  most  foreign 
adventure.  He  never  again,  or  before, •saw  anything  so 
new  ;  or,  except  when  he  came  to  Craigenputtoch  on 
visits,  so  distant.  He  loved  to  speak  of  it.  That  talking 
day  we  had  together  I  made  him  tell  it  me  all  over  again 
from  the  beginning,  as  a  whole,  for  the  first  time.  He 
was  a  "hewer,"  and  had  some  few  pence  a  day.  He 
could  describe  with  the  lucidest  distinctness  how  the  whole 
work  went  on,  and  "headers"  and  "closers,"  solidly 
massed  together,  made  an  impregnable  pile.  He  used  to 
hear  sermons  in  Closeburn  church  ;  sometimes  too  in 
Dunscore.  The  men  had  a  refreshment  of  ale,  for  which 
he  too  used  to  table  his  twopence,  but  the  grown-up  men 
generally,  for  the  most  part,  refused  them.  A  superin- 
tendent of  the  work,  a  mason  from  Edinburgh,  who  did 
nothing  but  look  on,  and,  rather  decidedly,  insist  on  terms 
of  contract,  "  took  a  great  notion  "  of  him  ;  was  for  hav- 
ing him  to  Edinburgh  along  with  him.  The  master 
builder,  pleased  with  his  ingenious  diligence,  once  laid  a 
shilling  on  his  "banker"  (stone  bench  for  hewing  on), 
which  he  rather  ungraciously  refused.  A  flood  once  car- 
ried  off  all   the   centres   and   woodwork.     He   saw   the 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  37 

master  anxiously,  tremulously,  watch  through  the  rain  as 
the  waters  rose.  When  they  prevailed,  and  all  went 
headlong,  the  poor  man,  wringing  his  hands  together, 
spread  them  out  with  open  palms  down  the  river,  as  if  to 
say,  "There  !" 

It  was  a  noble  moment,  which  I  regret  to  have  missed, 
when  my  father  going  to  look  at  Craigenputtoch  saw  this 
work  for  the  first  time  again  after  a  space  of  more  than 
fifty  years.  How  changed  was  all  else,  this  thing  yet 
the  same.  Then  he  was  a  poor  boy,  now  he  was  a  re- 
spected old  man,  increased  in  worldly  goods,  honoured  in 
himself  and  in  his  household.  He  grew  alert  (Jamie  said) 
and  eagerly  observant,  eagerly  yet  with  sadness.  Our 
country  was  all  altered  ;  browsing  knowes  were  become 
seed-fields  ;  trees,  then  not  so  much  as  seeds,  now  waved 
out  broad  boughs.  The  houses,  the  fields,  the  men  were 
of  another  fashion.  There  was  little  that  he  could  recog- 
nise. On  reaching  the  bridge  itself  he  started  up  to  his 
knees  in  the  cart,  sat  wholly  silent  and  seemed  on  the  point 
of  weeping. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  first  time  I  saw  this  bridge 
twelve  years  ago  in  the  dusk  of  a  May  day.  I  had  walked 
from  Muirkirk,  sickly,  forlorn,  of  saddest  mood  (for  it  was 
then  my  days  of  darkness).  A  rustic  answered  me, 
"  Auldgarth."  There  it  lay,  silent,  red  in  the  red  dusk. 
It  was  as  if  half  a  century  of  past  time  had  fatefully  for 
moments  turned  back. 

The  master  builder  of  this  bridge  was  one  Stewart  of 
Minniyve,  who  afterwards  became  my  uncle  John  Aitken's 
father-in-law.     Him   I  once   saw.       My   Craigenputtoch 


38  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

mason,  James  Hainning's  father,  was  the  smith  that 
•*  sharpened  the  tools."  A  noble  crait  it  is,  that  of  a  ma- 
son ;  a  good  building  will  last  longer  than  most  books,  than 
one  book  of  a  million.  The  Auldgarth  bridge  still  spans 
the  water  silently,  defies  its  chafing.  There  hangs  it  and 
will  hang  grim  and  strong,  when  of  all  the  cunning  hands 
that  piled  it  together,  perhaps  the  last  now  is  powerless 
in  the  sleep  of  death.  O  Time  !  O  Time  !  wondrous  and 
fearful  art  thou,  yet  there  is  in  man  what  is  above  thee. 

Of  my  father's  youth  and  opening  manhood,  and  with 
what  specialities  this  period  was  marked,  I  have  but  an 
imperfect  notion.  He  was  now  master  of  his  own  actions, 
possessed  of  means  by  his  own  earning,  and  had  to  try 
the  world  on  various  sides,  and  ascertain  wherein  his  own 
"  chief  end  "  in  it  actually  lay.  The  first  impulse  of  man 
is  to  seek  for  enjoyment.  He  lives  with  more  or  less  im- 
petuosity, more  or  less  irregularity,  to  conquer  for  himself 
a  home  and  blessedness  of  a  mere  earthly  kind.  Not  till 
later  (in  how  many  cases  never)  docs  he  ascertain  that  on 
earth  there  is  no  such  home  :  that  his  true  home  lies  be- 
yond the  world  of  sense,  is  a  celestial  home.  Of  these 
experimenting  and  tentative  days  my  father  did  not  speak 
with  much  pleasure  ;  not  at  all  with  exultation.  He 
considered  them  days  of  folly,  perhaps  sinful  days.  Yet 
I  well  know  that  his  life  even  then  was  marked  by  tem- 
perance  (in  all  senses),  that  he  was  abstemious,  prudent, 
industrious  as  very  few. 

I  have  a  dim  picture  of  him  in  his  little  world.  In 
summer  season  diligently,  cheerfully  labouring  Avith 
trowel  and  hammer,  amused  by    grave  talk  and    grave 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  39 

humour  with  the  doers  of  the  craft.  Building,  walling, 
is  an  operation  that  beyond  most  other  manual  ones  re- 
quires incessant  consideration — even  new  invention.  I 
have  heard  good  judges  say  that  he  excelled  in  it  all 
persons  they  had  seen.  In  the  depth  of  winter  I  figure 
him  with  the  others  gathered  round  his  father's  hearth 
(now  no  longer  so  poor  and  desolate),  hunting  (but  now 
happily  for  amusement,  not  necessity),  present  here  and 
there  at  some  merry  meetings  and  social  doings,  as  poor 
Annandale,  for  poor  yet  God-created  men,  might  then 
offer.  Contentions  occur.  In  these  he  was  no  man  to 
be  played  with  :   fearless,  formidable  (I  think  to  all). 

In  after  times  he  looked  back  with  sorrow  on  such 
things — yet  to  me  they  were  not  and  are  not  other  than 
interesting  and  innocent — scarcely  ever,  perhaps  never, 
to  be  considered  as  aggressions,  but  always  as  defences, 
manful  assertions  of  man's  rights  against  men  that  would 
infringe  them — and  victorious  ones.  I  can  faintly  picture 
out  one  scene  which  I  got  from  him  many  years  ago  ; 
perhaps  it  was  at  some  singing  school ;  a  huge  rude 
peasant  was  rudely  insulting  and  defying  the  party  my 
father  belonged  to,  and  the  others  quailed  and  bore  it  till 
he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  but  clutches  his  rough  adver- 
sary (who  had  been  standing,  I  think,  at  some  distance 
on  some  sort  of  height)  by  the  two  flanks,  swings  him 
with  ireful  force  round  in  the  air,  hitting  his  feet  against 
some  open  door,  and  hurled  him  to  a  distance,  supine, 
lamed,  vanquished,  and  utterly  humbled.  The  whole 
business  looks  to  me  to  have  passed  physically  in  a  troub- 
lous moonlight. 


40  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

In  the  same  environment  and  hue  does  it  now  stand 
in  my  memory,  sad  and  stern.  He  could  say  of  such 
things  "  I  am  wac  to  think  on't  :  "  wae  from  repentance. 
Happy  he  who  has  nothing  worse  to  repent  of. 

In  the  vanities  and  gaUantries  of  Hfe  (though  such  as 
these  would  come  across  him),  he  seems  to  have  very 
sparingly  mingled.  One  Robert  Henderson,  a  dashing 
projector  and  devotee,  with  a  dashing  daughter,  came 
often  up  in  conversation.  This  was  perhaps  (as  it  were) 
my  father's  introduction  to  the  "pride  of  life : "  from 
which,  as  his  wont  was,  he  appears  to  have  derived  little 
but  instruction,  but  expansion  and  experience.  I  have 
good  reason  to  know  he  never  addressed  any  woman  ex- 
cept with  views  that  were  pure  and  manly.  But  happily 
he  had  been  enabled  very  soon  in  this  choice  of  the  false 
and  present  against  the  true  and  future,  to  "choose  the 
better  part."  Happily  there  still  existed  in  Annandale 
an  influence  of  goodness,  pure  emblems  of  a  religion. 
There  were  yet  men  living  from  whom  a  youth  of  earnest- 
ness might  learn  by  example  how  to  become  a  man.  Old 
Robert  Brand,  my  father's  maternal  uncle,  was  probably 
of  very  great  influence  on  him  in  this  respect.  Old  Rob- 
ert was  a  rigorous  religionist,  thoroughly  filled  with  a 
celestial  philosophy  of  this  earthly  life,  which  showed  im- 
pressively through  his  stout  decision  and  somewhat  cross- 
grained  deeds  and  words.  Sharp  sayings  of  his  are  still 
recollected  there,  not  unworthy  of  preserving.  He  was 
a  man  of  iron  firmness,  a  just  man  and  of  wise  insight.  I 
think  my  father,  consciously  and  unconsciously,  may  have 
learnt   more  from  him   than  from  any  other  individual. 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  41 

From  the  time  when  he  connected  himself  openly 
with  the  religious,  became  a  Burgher  (strict,  not  strict- 
est species  of  Presbyterian  Dissenter)  may  be  dated  his 
spiritual  majority  ;  his  earthly  life  was  now  enlightened 
and  overcanopied  by  a  heavenly.  He  was  henceforth  a 
man. 

Annandale  had  long  been  a  lawless  Border  country. 
The  people  had  ceased  from  foray  riding,  but  not  from 
its  effects.  The  "gallant  man"  of  those  districts  was 
still  a  wild,  natural,  almost  animal  man,  A  select  few 
had  only  of  late  united  themselves.  They  had  built  a 
little  meeting-house  at  Ecclefechan,  thatched  with  heath, 
and  chosen  them  a  priest,  by  name  John  Johnston,  the 
priestliest  man  I  ever  under  any  ecclesiastical  guise  was 
privileged  to  look  upon.  He  in  his  last  years  helped  me 
well  with  my  Latin  (as  he  had  done  many)  and  otherwise 
produced  me  far  higher  benefit.  This  peasant  union, 
this  little  heath-thatched  house,  this  simple  evangelist, 
together  constituted  properly  the  church  of  that  district. 
They  were  the  blessing  and  the  saving  of  many.  On  me 
too  their  pious  heaven-sent  influences  still  rest  and  live. 
Let  them  employ  them  well.  There  was  in  those  days  a 
"teacher  of  the  people."  He  sleeps  not  far  from  my 
father  (who  built  his  monument)  in  the  Ecclefechan 
churchyard  ;  the  teacher  and  the  taught.  "  Blessed,"  I 
again  say,  "  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord.  They  do 
rest  from  their  labours  ;  their  works  follow  them." 

My  father,  I  think,  was  of  the  second  race  of  religious 
men  in  Annandale.  Old  Robert  Brand  an  ancient  herds- 
man, old  John  Britton,  and  some  others  that  I  have  seen. 


42  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

were  perhaps  among  the  first.  There  is  no  third  rising. 
Time  sweeps  all  away  with  it  so  fast  at  this  epoch.  The 
Scottish  Church  has  been  shortlived,  and  was  late  in 
reaching  thither. 

Perhaps  it  was  in  1791  that  my  father  married  one 
Janet  Carlyle,  a  very  distant  kinswoman  of  his  own  (her 
father  yet,  I  believe,  lives,  a  professor  of  religion,  but 
long  time  suspected  to  be  none  of  the  most  perfect, 
though  not  without  his  w'orth).  She  brought  him  one 
son,  John,  at  present  a  well- doing  householder  at  Cocker- 
mouth.  She  left  him  and  this  little  life  in  little  more  than 
a  year.  A  mass  of  long  fair  woman's  hair  which  had  be- 
longed to  her  long  lay  in  a  secret  drawer  at  our  house 
(perhaps  still  lies)  ;  the  sight  of  it  used  to  give  me  a  cer- 
tain faint  horror.  It  had  been  cut  from  her  head  near 
death,  when  she  was  in  the  height  of  fever.  She  was 
delirious,  and  would  let  none  but  my  father  cut  it.  He 
thought  himself  sure  of  infection,  nevertheless  consented 
readily,  and  escaped.  Many  ways  I  have  understood  he 
had  much  to  sufifer  then,  yet  he  never  spoke  of  it,  or  only 
transientl}^  and  with  a  historical  stoicism.  Let  me  here 
mention  the  reverent  custom  the  old  men  had  in  Annan- 
dale  of  treating  death  even  in  their  loosest  thoughts.  It 
is  now  passing  away  ;  with  my  father  it  was  quite  in- 
variable. Had  he  occasion  to  speak  in  the  future,  he 
would  say  I  will  do  so  and  so,  never  failing  to  add  (were 
it  only  against  the  morrow)  "  if  I  be  spared,"  "  if  I  live." 
The  dead  again  he  spoke  of  with  perfect  freedom,  only 
with  serious  gravity  (perhaps  a  lowering  of  the  voice)  and 
always,  even  in   the    most  trivial   conversation,  adding, 


I 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  43 

"that's  gane  ;  "  "  my  brother  John  that's  gane  "  did  so 
and  so.     Ernst  ist  das  Lcben. 

He  married  again,  in  the  beginning  of  1795,  my 
mother,  Margaret  Aitken  (a  woman  of  to  me  the  fairest 
descent — that  of  the  pious,  the  just  and  wise).  She  was 
a  faithful  helpmate  to  him,  toiling  unweariedly  at  his  side  ; 
to  us  the  best  of  all  mothers  ;  to  whom,  for  body  and 
soul,  I  owe  endless  gratitude.  By  God's  great  mercy  she 
is  still  left  as  a  head  and  centre  to  us  all,  and  may  yet 
cheer  us  with  her  pious  heroism  through  many  toils,  if 
God  so  please.  I  am  the  eldest  child,  born  in  1795, 
December  4,  and  trace  deeply  in  myself  the  character  of 
both  parents,  also  the  upbringing  and  example  of  both  ; 
the  inheritance  of  their  natural  health,  had  not  I  and  the 
time  beat  on  it  too  hard. 

It  must  have  been  about  the  period  of  the  first  mar- 
riage that  my  father  and  his  brothers,  already  master- 
masons,  established  themselves  in  Ecclefechan.  They  all 
henceforth  began  to  take  on  a  civil  existence,  to  "  accu- 
mulate "  in  all  senses,  to  grow.  They  were  among  the 
best  and  truest  men  of  their  craft  (perhaps  the  very  best) 
in  that  whole  district,  and  recompensed  accordingly. 
Their  gains  were  the  honest  wages  of  industry,  their 
savings  were  slow  but  constant,  and  in  my  father's,  con- 
tinued (from  one  source  or  other)  to  the  end.  He  was 
born  and  brought  up  the  poorest  ;  by  his  own  right  hand 
he  had  become  wealthy,  as  he  accounted  wealth,  and  in 
all  ways  plentifully  supplied.  His  household  goods 
valued  in  money  may  perhaps  somewhat  exceed  1,000/. 
In  real  inward  worth  that  value  was  greater  than  that  of 


44  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

most  kingdoms,  than  all  Napoleon's  conquests,  which  did 
not  endure.  He  saw  his  children  grow  up  round  him  to 
guard  him  and  to  do  him  honour.  lie  had,  ultimately,  a 
hearty  respect  from  all ;  could  look  forward  from  his 
verge  of  this  earth,  rich  and  increased  in  goods,  into  an 
everlasting  country,  where  through  the  immeasurable 
deeps,  shone  a  solemn,  sober  hope.  I  must  reckon  my 
father  one  of  the  most  prosperous  men  I  have  ever  in  my 
life  known. 

Frugality  and  assiduity,  a  certain  grave  composure, 
an  earnestness  (not  without  its  constraint,  then  felt  as 
oppressive  a  little,  yet  which  now  yields  its  fruit)  were 
the  order  of  our  household.  We  were  all  particularly 
taught  that  work  (temporal  or  spiritual)  was  the  only  thing 
we  had  to  do,  and  incited  always  by  precept  and  example 
to  do  it  well.  An  inflexible  element  of  authority  sur- 
rounded us  all.  We  felt  from  the  first  (a  useful  thing), 
that  our  own  wish  had  often  nothing  to  say  in  the  matter. 

It  was  not  a  joyful  life  (what  life  is  ?),  yet  a  safe,  quiet 
one ;  above  most  others  (or  any  other  I  have  witnessed)  a 
wholesome  one.  We  were  taciturn  rather  than  talkative. 
But  if  !ittle  was  said,  that  little  had  generally  a  meaning. 
I  cannot  be  thankful  enough  for  my  parents.  My  early, 
yet  not  my  earliest  recollections  of  my  father  have  in 
them  a  certain  awe  which  only  now  or  very  lately  has 
passed  into  free  reverence.  I  was  parted  from  him  in  my 
tenth  year,  and  never  Jiabitually  lived  with  him  after- 
wards. Of  the  very  earliest  I  have  saved  some,  and 
would  not  for  moneys'  worth  lose  them.  All  that  be- 
longs to  him  has  become  very  precious  to  me. 


JAMES    CARLYLE.  45 

I  can  remember  his  carrying  me  across  Mein  Water, 
over   a  pool   some  few  yards    below  where    the  present 
Meinfoot  bridge  stands.      Perhaps  I  was  in  my  fifth  year. 
He  was  going  to  Luce,  I  think,  to  ask  after  some  joiner. 
It  was   the   loveliest   summer   evening  I   recollect.      My 
memory  dawns  (or  grows  light)  at  the  first  aspect  of  the 
stream  ;  of  the  pool  spanned  by  a  wooden  bow  without 
railing,  and  a  single  plank  broad.     He  lifted  me  against 
his  thigh  with  his  right  hand,  and  walked  careless  along 
till   we    were   over.      My    face  was    turned  rather  down- 
wards.     I  looked  into    the  deep  clear  water  and  its  re- 
flected skies    with    terror,   yet    with    confidence    that   he 
could  save  me.     Directly  after,  I,  light  of  heart,  asked  of 
him  what  those  little  black  things  were  that  I  sometimes 
seemed  to  create  by  rubbing  the  palms  of  my  hands  to- 
gether ;  and  can  at  this  moment  (the  mind  having  been 
doubtless  excited  by  the  past  peril)  remember  that  I  de- 
scribed them  in  these  words,  "  little  penny  rows  "  (rolls) 
"but  far  less."     He  explained   it   wholly   to  me;   "my 
hands  were  not  clean."     He  was  very  kind,  and  I  loved 
him.     All  around  this  is  dusk  or  night  before  and  after. 
It  is  not  my  earliest  recollection,  not  even  of  him.      My 
earliest  of  all  is  a  mad  passion  of  rage  at  my  elder  brother 
John  (on  a  visit  to  us  likely  from  his  grandfather)  in  which 
my  father  too  figures,  though  dimly,  as  a  kind  of  cheerful 
comforter  and  soother.     I  had  broken  my  little  brown 
stool,  by  madly  throwing  it  at  my  brother,  and  felt,  for 
perhaps  the  first  time,  the  united  pangs  of  loss  and  of  re- 
morse.    I  was  perhaps  hardly  more  than  two  years  old, 
but  can  get  no  one  to  fix  the  date  for  me,  though  all  is 


46  JAMES    CARLYLE. 

Still  quite  legible  for  myself  with  many  of  its  features.  I 
remember  the  first  "new  half-pence"  (brought  from 
Dumfries  by  my  father  and  mother  for  Alick  and  me), 
and  words  that  my  uncle  John  said  about  it,  in  1799  ! 
Backwards  beyond  all,  dim  ruddy  images  of  deeper  and 
deeper  brown  shade  into  the  dark  beginnings  of  being. 

I  remember,  perhaps  in  my  fifth  year,  his  teaching  me 
arithmetical  things,  especially  how  to  divide  (my  letters, 
taught  me  by  my  mother,  I  have  no  recollection  of  what- 
ever ;  of  reading  scarcely  any).  He  said.  This  is  the 
divider  (divisor)  ;  this  etc.  ;  and  gave  me  a  quite  clear 
notion  how  to  do  it.  My  mother  said  I  would  forget  it 
all;  to  which  he  answered,  "Not  so  much  as  they  that 
have  never  learnt  it."  Five  years  or  so  after  he  said  to 
me  once,  "Tom,  I  do  not  grudge  thy  schooling  now, 
when  thy  uncle  Frank  owns  thee  to  be  a  better  arithme- 
tician than  himself." 

He  took  me  down  to  Annan  Academy  on  the  Whit- 
sunday morning,  1806  ;  I  trotting  at  his  side  in  the  way 
alluded  to  in  Teufclsdrockh.  It  was  a  bright  morning, 
and  to  me  full  of  movement,  of  fluttering  boundless 
hopes,  saddened  by  parting  with  mother,  with  home,  and 
which  afterwards  were  cruelly  disappointed.  He  called 
once  or  twice  in  the  grand  schoolroom,  as  he  chanced  to 
have  business  at  Annan  ;  once  sat  down  by  me  (as  the 
master  was  out)  and  asked  whether  I  was  all  well.  The 
boys  did  not  laugh  as  I  feared  ;  perhaps  durst  not. 

He  was  always  generous  to  me  in  my  school  ex- 
penses ;  never  by  grudging  look  or  word  did  he  give  me 
any  pain.     With  a  noble  faith  he  launched  me  forth  into 


I 


JAMES    CARLYLE.  47 

a  world  which  himself  had  never  been  permitted  to  visit. 
Let  me  study  to  act  worthily  of  him  there. 

He  wrote  to  me  duly  and  affectionately  while  I  was  at 
college.  Nothing  that  was  good  for  me  did  he  fail  with 
his  best  ability  to  provide.  His  simple,  true  counsel  and 
fatherly  admonitions  have  now  first  attained  their  fit  sa- 
credness  of  meaning.     Pity  for  me  if  they  be  thrown  away. 

His  tolerance  for  me,  his  trust  in  me,  was  great. 
When  I  declined  going  forward  into  the  Church  (though 
his  heart  vvas  set  upon  it),  he  respected  my  scruples,  my 
volition,  and  patiently  let  me  have  my  way.  In  after 
years,  when  I  had  peremptorily  ceased  from  being  a 
schoolmaster,  though  he  inwardly  disapproved  of  the  step 
as  imprudent,  and  saw  me  in  successive  summers  linger- 
ing beside  him  in  sickliness  of  body  and  mind,  without 
outlook  towards  any  good,  he  had  the  forbearance  to 
say  at  worst  nothing,  never  once  to  whisper  discontent 
with  me. 

If  my  dear  mother,  with  the  trustfulness  of  a  mother's 
heart,  ministered  to  all  my  woes,  outward  and  inward,  and 
even  against  hope  kept  prophesying  good,  he,  wirh  whom 
I  communicated  far  le^,  who  could  not  approve  my 
schemes,  did  nothing  that  was  not  kind  and  fatherly.  His 
roof  was  my  shelter,  which  a  word  from  him  (in  those 
sour  days  of  wounded  vanity)  would  have  deprived  me  of. 
He  patiently  let  me  have  my  way,  helping  when  he  could, 
when  he  could  not  help  never  hindering.  When  hope 
again  dawned  for  me,  how  hearty  was  his  joy,  yet  how 
silent.     I  have  been  a  happy  son. 

On  my  first  return  from  college  (in  the  spring,  1810), 


48  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

I  met  him  in  the  Langlands  road,  walking  out  to  try 
whether  he  would  not  happen  to  see  me  coming.  He  had 
a  red  plaid  about  him  ;  was  recovering  from  a  fit  of  sick- 
ness (his  first  severe  one)  and  there  welcomed  me  back. 
It  was  a  bright  April  day.     Where  is  it  now  ? 

The  great  world-revolutions  send  in  their  disturbing 
billows  to  the  remotest  creek,  and  the  overthrow  of  thrones 
more  slowly  overturns  also  the  households  of  the  lowly. 
Nevertheless  in  all  cases  the  wise  man  adjusts  himself. 
Even  in  these  times  the  hand  of  the  diligent  maketh  rich. 
My  father  had  seen  the  American  War,  the  French  Rev- 
olution, the  rise  and  fall  of  Napoleon.  The  last  arrested 
him  strongly.  In  the  Russian  Campaign  he  bought  a 
London  newspaper,  which  I  read  aloud  to  a  little  circle 
twice  weekly.  He  was  struck  with  Napoleon,  and  would 
say  and  look  pregnant  things  about  him.  Empires  won 
and  empires  lost  (while  his  little  household  held  together) 
and  now  it  was  all  vanished  like  a  tavern  brawl.  For  the 
rest  he  never  meddled  with  politics.  He  was  not  there  to 
govern,  but  to  be  governed  ;  could  still  live  and  therefore 
did  not  revolt.  I  have  heard  him  say  in  late  years  with 
an  impressiveness  which  all  his  perceptions  carried  with 
them,  that  the  lot  of  a  poor  man  was  growing  worse  and 
worse ;  that  the  world  would  not  and  could  not  last  as  it 
was  ;  that  mighty  changes  of  which  none  saw  the  end  were 
■  on  the  way.  To  him,  as  one  about  to  take  his  departure, 
the  whole  was  but  of  secondary  moment.  He  was  looking 
towards  "■  a  city  that  had  foundations." 

In  the  "  dear  years"  (1799  and  1800)  when  the  oat- 
meal was  as  high  as  ten  shillings  a  stone,  he  had  noticed 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  49 

the  labourers  (I  have  heard  him  tell)  retire  each  separate- 
ly to  a  brook,  and  there  drink  instead  of  dining,  without 
complaint,  anxious  only  to  hide  it. 

At  Langholm  he  once  saw  a  heap  of  smuggled  tobacco 
publicly  burnt.  •  Dragoons  were  ranged  round  it  with 
drawn  swords  ;  some  old  women  stretched  through  their 
old  Y'ithered  arms  to  snatch  a  little  of  it,  and  the  dragoons 
did  not  hinder  them.     A  natural  artist ! 

The  largest  sum  he  ever  earned  in  one  year  was,  / 
thinky  100/.  by  the  building  of  Cressfield  House.  He 
wisely  quitted  the  masq;n  trade  at  the  time  when  the  char- 
acter of  it  had  changed,  when  universal  poverty  and  van- 
ity made  show  and  cheapness  (here  as  everywhere)  be 
preferred  to  substance  ;  when,  as  he  said  emphatically, 
honest  trade  "  was  done."  He  became  farmer  (of  a  wet 
clayey  spot  called  Mainhill)  in  181 5,  that  so  "  he  might 
keep  all  his  family  about  him,"  struggled  with  his  old  val- 
our, and  here  too  prevailed. 

Two  ears  of  corn  are  now  in  many  places  growing 
where  he  found  only  one.  Unworthy  or  little  worthy  men 
for  the  time  reap  the  benefit,  but  it  was  a  benefit  done  to 
God's  earth,  and  God's  mankind  will  year  after  year  get 
the  good  of  it. 

In  his  contention  with  an  unjust  or  perhaps  only  a  mis- 
taken landlord,  he  behaved  with  prudent  resolution,  not 
like  a  vain  braggart  but  like  a  practically  brave  man.  It 
was  I  that  innocently  (by  my  settlement  at  Hoddam  Hill) 
had  involved  him  in  it.  I  must  admire  now  his  silence, 
while  we  were  all  so  loud  and  vituperative.  He  spoke 
nothing  in  that  matter  except  only  what  had  practical 
4 


50  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

meaning  in  it,  and  in  a  practical  tone.  His  answers  to  un- 
just proposals  meanwhile  were  resolute  as  ever,  memor- 
able for  their  emphasis.  "  I  will  not  do  it,"  said  he  once  ; 
"  I  will  rather  go  to  Jerusalem  seeking  farms  and  die  with- 
out finding  one."  "  We  can  live  without Sharpe,"  said  he 
once  in  my  hearing  (such  a  thing,  only  once)  "and  the 
whole  Sharpe  creation."  On  getting  to  Scotsbrig„  the 
rest  of  us  all  triumphed — not  he.  He  let  the  matter  stand 
on  its  own  feet ;  was  there  also  not  to  talk,  but  to  work. 
He  even  addressed  a  conciliatory  letter  to  General  Sharpe 
(which  I  saw  right  to  write  for  him,  since  he  judged  pru- 
dence better  than  pride),  but  it  produced  no  result  except 
indeed  the  ascertainment  that  none  could  be  produced 
which  itself  was  one. 

When  he  first  entered  our  house  at  Craigenputtoch, 
he  said  in  his  slow  emphatic  way,  with  a  certain  rustic 
dignity  to  my  wife  (I  had  entered  without  introducing 
him),  "  I  am  grown  an  old  felloiv''  (never  can  we  forget 
the  pathetic  slow  earnestness  of  these  two  words) ;  "I 
am  grown  an  old  fellow,  and  wished  to  see  ye  all  once 
more  while  I  had  opportunity."  Jane  '  was  greatly  struck 
with  him,  and  still  farther  opened  my  eyes  to  the  treasure 
I  possessed  in  a  father. 

The  last  thing  I  gave  him  was  a  cake  of  Cavendish 
tobacco  sent  down  by  Alick  about  this  time  twelvemonth. 
Through  life  I  had  given  him  very  little,  having  little  to 
give.  He  needed  little,  and  from  me  expected  nothing. 
Thou  who  wouldst  give,  give  quickly.  In  the  grave  thy 
loved  one  can  receive  no  kindness.  I  once  bought  him  a 
'  Mibs  Jane  Welsh,  whom  Carlyle  married.- 


JAMES   CARLYLE.  5  I 

pair  of  silver  spectacles,  of  the  receipt  of  which  and  the 
letter  that  accompanied  them  (John  told  me)  he  was  very- 
glad,  and  nigh  weeping.  "  What  I  gave  I  have."  He 
read  with  these  spectacles  till  his  last  days,  and  no  doubt 
sometimes  thought  of  me  in  using  them. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  about  the  first  of  August 
last,  a  few  days  before  departing  hither.  He  was  very- 
kind,  seemed  prouder  of  me  than  ever.  What  he  had 
never  done  the  like  of  before,  he  said,  on  hearing  me  ex- 
press something  which  he  admired,  "  Man,  it's  surely  a 
pity  that  thou  shouldst  sit  yonder  with  nothing  but  the 
eye  of  Omniscience  to  see  thee,  and  thou  with  such  a  gift 
to  speak."  His  eyes  were  sparkling  mildly,  with  a  kind 
of  deliberate  joy.  Strangely  too  he  offered  me  on  one 
of  those  mornings  (knowing  that  I  was  poor)  "two 
sovereigns  "  which  he  had  of  his  own,  and  pressed  them 
on  my  acceptance.  They  were  lying  in  his  desk  ;  none 
knew  of  them.  He  seemed  really  anxious  and  desirous 
that  I  should  take  them,  should  take  his  little  hoard,  his. 
all  that  he  had  to  give.  I  said  jokingly  afterwards  that 
surely  he  was  FEY.     So  it  has  proved. 

I  shall  now  no  more  behold  my  dear  father  with  these 
bodily  eyes.  With  him  a  whole  threescore  and  ten  years 
of  the  past  has  doubly  died  for  me.  It  is  as  if  a  new  leaf 
in  the  great  book  of  time  were  turned  over.  Strange 
time — endless  time  ;  or  of  which  I  see  neither  end  nor 
beginning.  All  rushes  on.  Man  follows  man.  His  life 
is  as  a  tale  that  has  been  told  ;  yet  under  Time  does  there 
not  lie  Eternity  ?  Perhaps  my  father,  all  that  essentially 
was  my  father,  is  even  now  near  me,  with  me.     Both  he 


52  JAMES   CARLYLE. 

and  I  are  with  God.  Perhaps,  if  it  so  please  God,  we 
shall  in  some  higher  state  of  being  meet  one  another, 
recognise  one  another.  As  it  is  written.  We  shall  be  for 
ever  with  God.  The  possibility,  nay  (in  some  way)  the 
certainty  of  perennial  existence  daily  grows  plainer  to 
me.  "  The  essence  of  whatever  was,  is,  or  shall  be,  even 
now  is."  God  is  great.  God  is  good.  His  will  be  done, 
for  it  will  be  right. 

As  it  is,  I  can  think  peaceably  of  the  departed  loved. 
All  that  was  earthly,  harsh,  sinful  in  our  relation  has 
fallen  away  ;  all  that  was  holy  in  it  remains.  I  can  see 
my  dear  father's  life  in  some  measure  as  the  sunk  pillar 
on  which  mine  was  to  rise  and  be  built ;  the  waters  of 
time  have  now  swelled  up  round  his  (as  they  will  round 
mine)  ;  I  can  see  it  all  transfigured,  though  I  touch  it  no 
longer.  I  might  almost  say  his  spirit  seems  to  have 
entered  into  me  (so  clearly  do  I  discern  and  love  him) ;  I 
seem  to  myself  only  the  continuation  and  second  volume 
of  my  father.  These  days  that  I  have  spent  thinking  of 
him  and  of  his  end,  are  the  peaceablest,  the  only  Sabbath 
that  I  have  had  in  London.  One  other  of  the  universal 
destinies  of  man  has  overtaken  me.  Thank  Heaven,  I 
know  and  have  known  what  it  is  to  be  a  son  ;  to  love  a 
father,  as  spirit  can  love  spirit.  God  give  me  to  live  to 
my  father's  honour  and  to  His.  And  now,  beloved 
father,  farewell  for  the  last  time  in  this  world  of  shadows  ! 
Tn  the  world  of  realities  may  the  Great  Father  again 
bring  us  together  in  perfect  holiness  and  perfect  love  ! 
Amen ! 

Sunday  night,  Jan.  29,  1832. 


EDWARD  IRVING. 


EDWARD    IRVING. 

Cheyne  Row,  Autumn  1866. 

Edward  Irving  died  thirty-two  years  ago  (December 
1834)  in  the  first  months  of  our  adventurous  settlement 
here.  The  memory  of  him  is  still  clear  and  vivid  with 
me  in  all  points  :  that  of  his  first  and  only  visit  to  us  in 
this  house,  in  this  room,  just  before  leaving  for  Glasgow 
(October  1834),  which  was  the  last  we  saw  of  him,  is  still 
as  fresh  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday  ;  and  he  has  a  solemn, 
massive,  sad  and  even  pitiable  though  not  much  blama- 
ble,  or  in  heart  even  blamable,  and  to  me  always  dear 
and  most  friendly  aspect,  in  those  vacant  kingdoms  of 
the  past.  He  was  scornfully  forgotten  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  having,  indeed,  sunk  a  good  while  before  out  of 
the  notice  of  the  more  intelligent  classes.  There  has  since 
been  and  now  is,  in  the  new  theological  generation,  a  kind 
of  revival  of  him,  on  rather  weak  and  questionable  terms, 
sentimental  mainly,  and  grounded  on  no  really  correct 
knowledge  or  insight.  Which,  however,  seems  to  be- 
speak some  continuance  of  by-gone  remembrances  for  a 
good  while  yet,  by  that  class  of  people  and  the  many  that 
hang  by  them.  Being  very  solitary,  and,  except  for  con- 
verse with  the  spirits  of  my  vanished  ones,  very  idle  in 
these  hours  and  days,  I  have  bethought  me  of  throwing 


56  EDWARD   IRVING. 

down  (the  more  rapidly  the  better)  something  of  my  rec- 
ollections of  this,  to  me,  very  memorable  man,  in  hopes 
they  may  by  possibility  be  worth  something  by-and-by 
to  some — not  worth  less  than  nothing  to  anybody  (viz. 
not  true  and  candid  according  to  my  best  thoughts)  if  I 
can  help  it. 

The  Irvings,  Edward's  father  and  uncles,  lived  all 
within  a  few  miles  of  my  native  place,  and  were  of  my 
father's  acquaintance.  Two  of  the  uncles,  whose  little 
farm  establishments  lay  close  upon  Ecclefechan,  were  of 
his  familiars,  and  became  mine  more  or  less,  especially 
one  of  them  (George,  of  Bogside),  who  was  further  a  co-re- 
ligionist of  ours  (a  "  Burgher  Seceder,"  not  a  "  Kirkman," 
as  the  other  was).  They  were  all  cheerfully  quiet,  rational, 
and  honest  people,  of  good-natured  and  prudent  turn. 
Something  of  what  might  be  called  a  kindly  vanity,  a  very 
harmless  self-esteem,  doing  pleasure  to  the  proprietor  and 
hurt  to  nobody  else,  was  traceable  in  all  of  them.  They 
were  not  distinguished  by  intellect,  any  of  them,  except  it 
might  be  intellect  in  the  unconscious  or  instinctive  condi- 
tion (coming  out  as  prudence  of  conduct,  etc.),  of  which 
there  were  good  indications  ;  and  of  Uncle  George,  who 
was  prudent  enough,  and  successfully  diligent  in  his  affairs 
(no  bad  proof  of  "  intellect"  in  some  shape)  though  other- 
wise a  most  taciturn,  dull,  and- almost  stupid-looking  man, 
I  remember  this  other  fact,  that  he  had  one  of  the  largest 
heads  in  the  district,  and  that  my  father,  he,  and  a  clever 
and  original  Dr,  Little,  their  neighbour,  never  could  be 
fitted  in  a  hat  shop  in  the  village,  but  had  always  to  send 
their  measure  to  Dumfries  to  a  hat-maker  there.    Whether 


i 


EDWARD   IRVING.  57 

George  had  a  round  head  or  a  long,  I  don't  recollect. 
There  was  a  fine  little  spice  of  innocent,  faint,  but  genuine 
and  kindly  banter  in  him  now  and  then.  Otherwise  I 
recollect  him  only  as  heavy,  hebetated,  elderly  or  old,  and 
more  inclined  to  quiescence  and  silence  than  to  talk  of  or 
care  about  anything  exterior  to  his  own  interests,  tem- 
poral or  spiritual. 

Gavin,  Edward's  father  (name  pronounced  Gayin  = 
Guyon,  as  Edward  once  remarked  to  me),  a  tallish  man 
of  rugged  countenance,  which  broke  out  oftenest  into 
some  innocent  fleer  of  merriment,  or  readiness  to  be  merry 
when  you  addressed  him,  was  a  prudent,  honest-hearted, 
rational  person,  but  made  no  pretension  to  superior  gifts 
of  mind,  though  he  too,  perhaps,  may  have  had  such  in 
its  undeveloped  form.  Thus,  on  ending  his  apprentice- 
ship, or  by  some  other  lucky  opportunity,  he  had  formed 
a  determination  of  seeing  a  little  of  England  in  the  first 
place,  and  actually  got  mounted  on  a  stout  pony,  accou- 
trements succinctly  complete  (road  money  in  a  belt  round 
his  own  body),  and  rode  and  wandered  at  his  will  deliber- 
ate southward,  I  think,  for  about  six  weeks,  as  far  as 
Wiltshire  at  least,  for  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  Devizes, 
"  The  Devizes  "  he  called  it,  as  one  of  his  halting  places. 
What  his  precise  amount  of  profit  from  this  was  I  know 
not  at  all,  but  it  bespeaks  something  ingenuous  and  adven- 
turous in  the  young  man.  He  was  by  craft  a  tanner,  had 
settled  in  Annan,  soon  began  to  be  prosperous,  wedded 
well,  and  continued  all  his  life  there.  He  was  among  the 
younger  of  these  brothers,  but  was  clearly  the  head  of 
them,  and,  indeed,  had  been  the  making  of  the  principal 


58  EDWARD   IRVING. 

two,  George  and  John,  whom  we  knew.  Gavin  was  bail- 
lie  in  Annan  when  the  furious  election  sung  by  Burns 
(^"  There  were  five  carlins  in  the  south" — five  burghs, 
namely)  took  place.  Gavin  voted  the  right  way  (Duke 
of  Oueensberry's  way)  and  got  for  his  two  brothers 
each  the  lease  of  a  snug  Oueensberry  farm,  which  grew 
even  the  snugger  as  dissolute  old  Queensberry  devel- 
oped himself  more  and  more  into  a  cynical  egoist,  sen- 
sualist, and  hater  of  his  next  heir  (the  Buccleuch,  not  a 
Douglas  but  a  Scott,  who  now  holds  both  dukedoms)  a 
story  well  known  over  Scotland,  and  of  altogether  lively 
interest  in  Annandale  (where  it  meant  entail-leases  and 
large  sums  of  money)  during  several  years  of  my  youth. 

These  people,  the  Queensberry  farmers,  seem  to  me  to 
have  been  the  happiest  set  of  yeomen  I  ever  came  to  see, 
not  only  because  they  sate  easy  as  to  rent,  but  because 
they  knew  fully  how  to  sit  so,  and  were  pious,  modest, 
thrifty  men,  who  neither  fell  into  laggard  relaxation  of 
diligence  or  were  stung  by  any  madness  of  ambition,  but 
faithfully  continued  to  turn  all  their  bits  of  worldly  suc- 
cess into  real  profit  for  soul  and  body.  They  disappeared 
(in  Chancery  lawsuit)  fifty  years  ago.  I  have  seen  vari- 
ous kinds  of  farmers,  scientific,  etc.,  etc.,  but  as  desirable 
a  set  not  since. 

Gavin  had  married  well,  perhaps  rather  above  his  rank, 
a  tall,  black-eyed,  handsome  woman,  sister  of  certain  Low- 
thers  in  that  neighbourhood,  who  did  most  of  the  incon- 
siderable corn  trade  of  those  parts,  and  were  considered 
a  stifif-necked,  faithful  kind  of  people,  apter  to  do  than  to 
speak,  originally  from  Cumberland,  I   beheve.     For  her 


I 


EDWARD   IRVING.  59 

own  share  the  mother  of  Edward  Irving  had  much  of 
fluent  speech  in  her,  and  of  management ;  thrifty,  assidu- 
ous, wise,  if  somewhat  fussy  ;  for  the  rest,  an  excellent 
house  mother  I  believe,  full  of  affection  and  tender  anxi- 
ety for  her  children  and  husband.  By  degrees  she  had 
developed  the  modest  prosperity  of  her  household  into 
something  of  decidedly  "genteel"  (Annan  "gentility"), 
and  having  left  the  rest  of  the  Irving  kindred  to  their  rus- 
tic solidities,  had  probably  but  httle  practical  familiarity 
with  most  of  them,  though  never  any  quarrel  or  estrange- 
ment that  I  heard  of.  Her  Gavin  was  never  careful  of 
gentility  ;  a  roomy  simplicity  and  freedom  (as  of  a  man  in 
a  dressing-gown)  his  chief  aim.  In  my  time  he  seemed 
mostly  to  lounge  about ;  superintended  his  tanning  only 
from  afar,  and  at  length  gave  it  up  altogether.  There 
were  four  other  brothers,  three  of  them  small  farmers,  and 
a  fourth  who  followed  some  cattle  trafhc  in  Annan,  and 
was  well  esteemed  there  for  his  honest  simple  ways.  No 
sister  of  theirs  did  I  ever  hear  of;  nor  what  their  father 
had  been  ;  some  honest  little  farmer,  he  too,  I  conclude. 
Their  mother,  Edward  Irving's  aged  grandmother,  I 
well  remember  to  have  seen  ;  once,  perhaps  twice,  at  her 
son  George's  fireside ;  a  good  old  woman,  half  in  dotage, 
and  the  only  creature  I  ever  saw  spinning  with  a  distaff 
and  no  other  apparatus  but  tow  or  wool.  All  these  Ir- 
vings  were  of  blond  or  even  red  complexion — red  hair  a 
prevailing  or  sole  colour  in  several  of  their  families., 
Gavin  himself  was  reddish,  or  at  least  sandy  blond  ;  but 
all  his  children  had  beautifully  coal-black  hair,  except  one 
girl,  the  youngest  of  the  set  but  two,  who  was  carroty 


Co  EDWARD   IRVING. 

like  her  cousins.  The  brunette  mother  with  her  swift 
black  eyes  had  prevailed  so  far.  Enough  now  for  the 
genealogy — superabundantly  enough. 

One  of  the  circumstances  of  Irving's  boyhood  ought 
not  to  be  neglected  by  his  biographer — the  remarkable 
schoolmaster  he  had.  "  Old  Adam  Hope,"  perhaps  not 
yet  fifty  in  Irving's  time,  was  all  along  a  notabiHty  in 
Annan. 

What  had  been  his  specific  history  or  employment  be- 
fore this  of  schoolmastering  I  do  not  know,  nor  was  he 
ever  my  schoolmaster  except  incidentally  for  a  few  weeks, 
once  or  twice,  as  substitute  for  some  absentee  who  had 
the  office.  But  I  can  remember  on  one  such  occasion 
reading  in  Sallust  with  him,  and  how  he  read  it  and 
drilled  us  in  it ;  and  I  have  often  enough  seen  him  teach, 
and  knew  him  well  enough.  A  strong-built,  bony,  but 
lean  kind  of  man,  of  brown  complexion,  and  a  pair  of  the 
sharpest,  not  the  sweetest,  black  eyes.  Walked  in  a  loung- 
ing, stooping  figure  ;  in  the  street  broad-brimmed  and  in 
clean  frugal  rustic  clothes  ;  in  his  schoolroom  bare-headed, 
hands  usually  crossed  over  back,  and  with  his  effective 
leather  strap  ("  cai  "  as  he  called  it,  not  tazvse,  for  it  was 
not  slit  at  all)  hanging  ready  over  his  thumb  if  requisite 
anywhere.  In  my  time  he  had  a  couple  of  his  front  teeth 
quite  black,  which  was  very  visible,  as  his  mouth  usually 
wore  a  settled  humanly  contemptuous  grin.  "  Nothing 
good  to  be  expected  from  you  or  from  those  you  came 
of,  ye  little  whelps,  but  we  must  get  from  you  the  best 
you  have,  and  not  complain  of  anything."  This  was  what 
the  grin  seemed  to  say  ;  but  the  black  teeth  {jet-blacky  for 


EDWARD   IRVING.  6 1 

he  chewed  tobacco  also  to  a  slight  extent,  never  spitting) 
were  always  mysterious  to  me,  till  at  length  I  found  they 
were  of  cork,  the  product  of  Adam's  frugal  penknife,  and 
could  be  removed  at  pleasure.  He  was  a  man  humanly 
contemptuous  of  the  world,  and  valued  "  suffrages  "  at  a 
most  low  figure  in  comparison.  I  should  judge  an  ex- 
tremely proud  man  ;  for  the  rest  an  inexorable  logician,  a 
Calvinist  at  all  points,  and  Burgher  Scotch  Seceder  to  the 
backbone.  He  had  written  a  tiny  English  grammar  lat- 
terly (after  Irving's  time  and  before  mine)  which  was  a 
very  compact,  lucid,  and  complete  little  piece  ;  and  was 
regarded  by  the  natives,  especially  the  young  natives 
who  had  to  learn  from  it,  with  a  certain  awe,  the  feat  of 
authorship  in  print  being  then  somewhat  stupendous  and 
beyond  example  in  those  parts.  He  did  not  know  very 
much,  though  still  a  good  something  ;  Geometry  (of 
Euclid),  Latin,  arithmetic,  English  Syntax.  But  what  he 
did  profess  or  imagine  himself  to  know,  he  knew  in  every 
fibre,  and  to  the  very  bottom.  More  rigorously  solid 
teacher  of  the  young  idea,  so  far  as  he  could  carry  it, 
you  might  have  searched  for  through  the  world  in  vain. 
Self-delusion,  half-knowledge,  sham  instead  of  reality, 
could  not  get  existed  in  his  presence.  He  had  a  Socratic 
way  with  him  ;  would  accept  the  hopeless  pupil's  half- 
knowledge,  or  plausible  sham  of  knowledge,  with  a  kind 
of  welcome.  "  Hm  !  Juii  !  yes  ;  L'  and  then  gently  enough 
begin  a  chain  of  enquiries  more  and  more  surprising  to 
the  poor  pupil,  till  he  had  reduced  him  to  zero — to  mere 
non  plus  ultra,  and  the  dismal  perception  that  his  sham 
of  knowledge  had  been  flat  misknowledge,  with  a  spice 


62  EDWARD   IRVING. 

of  dishonesty  added.  This  was  what  he  called  "  making 
a  boy  fast."  For  the  poor  boy  had  to  sit  in  his  place 
under  arrest  all  day  or  day  after  day,  meditating-  those 
dismal  new-revealed  facts,  and  beating  ineffectually  his 
poor  brains  for  some  solution  of  the  mystery  and  feasible 
road  out.  He  might  apply  again  at  pleasure.  "  I  have 
made  it  out,  sir."  But  if  again  found  self-deluded,  it  was 
only  a  new  padlock  to  those  fastenings  of  his.  They 
were  very  miserable  to  the  poor  penitent,  or  impenitent, 
wretch. 

I  remember  my  father  once  describing  to  us  a  call  he 
had  made  on  Hope  during  the  mid-day  hour  of  interval, 
whom  he  found  reading  or  writing  something,  not  having 
cared  to  lock  the  door  and  to  go  home,  with  three  or  four 
bits  of  boys  sitting  prisoners,  "  made  fast  "  in  different 
parts  of  the  room  ;  all  perfectly  miserable,  each  with  a 
rim  of  black  worked  out  round  his  eye-sockets  (the  effect 
of  salt  tears  wiped  by  knuckles  rather  dirty).  Adam, 
though  not  cat-like  of  temper  or  intention,  had  a  kind  of 
cat-pleasure  in  surveying  and  playing  with  these  captive 
mice.  He  was  a  praise  and  glory  to  well-doing  boys,  a 
beneficent  terror  to  the  ill-doing  or  dishonest  blockhead 
sort ;  and  did  what  was  in  his  power  to  educe  (or  educate) 
and  make  available  the  net  amount  of  faculty  discoverable 
in  each,  and  separate  ficmly  the  known  from  the  unknown 
or  misknown  in  those, young  heads.  On  Irving,  who 
always  spoke  of  him  with  mirthful  affection,  he  had  pro- 
duced quietly  not  a  little  effect ;  prepared  him  well  for  his 
triumphs  in  geometry  and  Latin  at  college,  and  through 
life  you  could  always  notice,  overhung  by  such  strange 


EDWARD   IRVING.  63 

draperies  and  huge  superstructures  so  foreign  to  it,  some- 
thing of  that  primaeval  basis  of  rigorous  logic  and  clear 
articulation  laid  for  him  in  boyhood  by  old  Adam  Hope. 
Old  Adam,  indeed,  if  you  know  the  Annanites  and  him, 
will  be  curiously  found  visible  there  to  this  day  ;  an  argu- 
mentative, clear-headed,  sound-hearted,  if  rather  conceited 
and  contentious  set  of  people,  more  given  to  intellectual 
pursuits  than  some  of  their  neighbours.  I  consider  Adam 
an  original  meritorious  kind  of  man,  and  regret  to  think 
that  his  sphere  was  so  limited.  In  my  youngest  years  his 
brown,  quietly  severe  face  was  familiar  to  me  in  Eccle- 
fechan  Meeting-house  (my  venerable  Mr,  Johnston's  hear- 
ers on  Sundays,  as  will  be  afterwards  noted).  Younger 
cousins  of  his,  excellent  honest  people,  I  have  since  met 
(David  Hope,  merchant  in  Glasgow  ;  William  Hope, 
scholar  in  Edinburgh,  etc.);  and  one  tall,  straight  old 
uncle  of  his,  very  clean  always,  brown  as  mahogany  and 
with  a  head  white  as  snow,  I  remember  very  clearly  as 
the  picture  of  gravity  and  pious  seriousness  in  that  poor 
Ecclefechan  place  of  worship,  concerning  whom  I  will  re- 
port one  anecdote  and  so  end.  Old  David  Hope — that 
was  his  name — lived  on  a  little  farm  close  by  Solway 
shore  a  mile  or  two  east  of  Annan.  A  wet  country,  with 
late  harvests  ;  which  (as  in  this  year  1866)  are  sometimes 
incredibly  difficult  to  save.  Ten  days  continuously  pour- 
ing ;  then  a  day,  perhaps  two  days,  of  drought,  part  of 
them  it  may  be  of  roaring  wind — during  which  the  mo- 
ments are  golden  for  you,  and  perhaps  you  had  better 
work  all  night,  as  presently  there  will  be  deluges  again. 
David's  stuff,   one  such   morning,   was  all  standing  dry 


64  EDWARD   IRVING. 

a^ain,  ready  to  be  saved  still,  if  he  stood  to  it,  wliich  was 
much  his  intention.  Breakfast  (wholesome  hasty  por- 
ridge) was  soon  over,  and  next  in  course  came  family  wor- 
ship, what  they  call  taking  the  Book  (or  Books,  i.e.  taking 
your  Bible,  Psalm  and  chapter  always  part  of  the  service). 
David  was  putting  on  his  spectacles  when  somebody 
rushed  in.  "  Such  a  raging  wind  risen  as  will  drive  the 
stooks  (shocks)  into  the  sea  if  let  alone."  "  Wind  !  "  an- 
swered David,  "  wind  canna  get  ae  straw  that  has  been 
appointed  mine.  Sit  down  and  let  us  worship  God"  (that 
rides  in  the  whirlwind) !  There  is  a  kind  of  citizen  which 
Britain  used  to  have,  very  different  from  the  millionaire 
Hebrews,  Rothschild  money-changers,  Demosthenes  Dis- 
raelis, and  inspired  young  Goschens  and  their  "  unex- 
ampled prosperity."  Weep,  Britain,  if  the  latter  are 
among  the  honourable  you  now  have  !  , 

One  other  circumstance  that  peculiarly  deserves  notice 
in  Irving's  yoimg  life,  and  perhaps  the  only  other  one,  is 
also  connected  with  Adam  Hope — Irving's  young  reli- 
gion. Annandale  was  not  an  irreligious  country,  though 
Annan  itself  (owing  to  a  drunken  clergyman  and  the  logi- 
cal habits  they  cultivated)  was  more  given  to  sceptical 
free-thinking  than  other  places.  The  greatly  prevailing 
fashion  was  a  decent  form  of  devoutncss,  and  pious  theo- 
retically anxious  regard  for  things  sacred,  in  all  which  the 
Irving  household  stood  fairly  on  a  level  with  its  neigh- 
bours, or  perhaps  above  most  of  them.  They  went  duly 
to  Kirk,  strove  still  to  tolerate  and  almost  to  respect  their 
unfortunate  minister  (who  had  succeeded  a  father  greatly 
esteemed  in  that  office,  and  was  a  man  of  gifts  himself, 


EDWARD   IRVING.  65 

and  of  much  goodnature,  though  so  far  gone  astray). 
Nothing  of  profane,  or  of  the  least  tendency  that  way,  was 
usually  seen,  or  would  have  been  suffered  without  protest 
,and  grave  rebuke  in  Irving's  environment,  near  or  remote. 
At  the  same  time  this  other  fact  was  visible  enough  if  you 
examined.  A  man  who  awoke  to  the  belief  that  he  actu- 
ally had  a  soul  to  be  saved  or  lost  was  apt  to  be  found 
among  the  Dissenting  people,  and  to  have  given  up  attend- 
ance on  the  Kirk.  It  was  ungenteel  for  him  to  attend 
the  meeting-house,  but  he  found  it  to  be  altogether  salu- 
tary. This  was  the  case  throughout  in  Irving's  district 
and  mine.  As  I  had  remarked  for  myself,  nobody  teach- 
ing me,  at  an  early  period  of  my  investigations  into  men 
and  things,  I  concluded  it  would  be  generally  so  over 
Scotland,  but  found  when  I  went  north  to  Edinburgh, 
Glasgow,  Fife,  etc.,  that  it  was  not,  or  by  no  means  so 
perceptibly  was.  For  the  rest,  all  Dissent  in  Scotland  is 
merely  a  stricter  adherence  to  the  National  Kirk  in  all 
points  ;  and  the  then  Dissenterage  is  definable  to  moderns 
simply  as  a  "  Free  Kirk,  making  no  noise.'"  It  had  quiet- 
ly (about  1760),  after  much  haggle  and  remonstrance, 
"  seceded,"  or  walked  out  of  its  stipends,  officialities,  and 
dignities,  greatly  to  the  mute  sorrow  of  religious  Scot- 
land, and  was  still,  in  a  strict  manner,  on  the  united 
voluntary  principle,  preaching  to  the  people  what  of  best 
and  sacredest  it  could.  Not  that  there  was  not  some- 
thing of  rigour,  of  severity,  a  lean-minded  controversial 
spirit,  among  certain  brethren,  mostly  of  the  laity,  I 
think  ;  narrow  nebs  (narrow  of  neb,  i.e.  of  nose  or  bill)  as 
the  outsiders  called  them  ;  of  flowerage,  or  free  harmoni-- 
5 


66  EDWARD   IRVING. 

ous  beauty,  there  could  not  well  be  much  in  this  system. 
But  really,  except  on  stated  occasions  (annual  fast-day  for 
instance,  when  you  were  reminded  that  "  a  testimony  had 
been  lifted  up,"  o(  which  j' on  were  now  the  bearers)  there 
was  little,  almost  no  talk,  especially  no  preaching  at  all, 
about  "  patronage,"  or  secular  controversy,  but  all  turned 
on  the  weightier  and  universal  matters  of  the  law,  and  was 
considerably  entitled  to  say  for  itself,  "Hear,  all  men." 
Very  venerable  are  those  old  Seceder  clergy  to  me  now 
when   I  look  back  on  them.     Most  of  the  chief  figures 
amone  them  in  Irving's  time  and  mine  were  hoary  old 
m.en  ;  men  so  like  what  one  might  call  antique  Evange- 
lists in  ruder  vesture,  and  "poor  scholars  and  gentlemen 
of  Christ,"  I  have  nowhere  met  with  in  monasteries  or 
churches,    among    Protestant   or    Papal    clergy,    in    any 
country  of  the  world.     All  this  is  altered  utterly  at  pres- 
ent, I  grieve  to  say,  and  gone  to  as  good  as  nothing  or 
worse.      It  began  to  alter  just  about  that  very  period,  on 
the  death  of  those  old  hoary  heads,  and  has  gone  on  with 
increasing  velocity  ever  since.     Irving  and  I  were  proba- 
bly among  the  last  products  it  delivered  before  gliding 
off,  and   then    rushing    off  into    self-consciousness,   arro- 
gancy,  insincerity,  jangle,  and  vulgarity,  which  I  fear  are 
now  very  much   the   definition    of  it.       Irving's  concern 
with  the  matter  had  been  as  follows,  brief,  but,  I  believe, 
ineffaceable  through  life, 

Adam  Hope  was  a  rigid  Seceder,  as  all  his  kin  and 
connections  were  ;  and  in  and  about  Annan,  equally  rigid 
some  of  them,  less  rigid  others,  were  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  such,  who  indeed  some  few  years  hence  combined 


EDWARD   IRVING.  6/ 

themselves  into  an  Annan  Burgher  congregation,  and  set 
up  a  meeting-house  and  minister  of  their  own.  For  the 
present  they  had  none,  nor  had  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
Venerable  Mr.  Johnston  of  Ecclefechan,  six  miles  off,  was 
their  only  minister,  and  to  him  duly  on  Sunday  Adam  and 
a  select  group  were  in  the  habit  of  pilgriming  for  sermon. 
Ltss  zealous  brethren  would  perhaps  pretermit  in  bad 
weather,  but  I  suppose  it  had  to  be  very  bad  when  Adam 
and  most  of  his  group  failed  to  appear.  The  distance — 
six  miles  twice — was  nothing  singular  in  this  case  ;  one 
family,  whose  streaming  plaids,  hung  up  to  drip,  I  re- 
member to  have  noticed  one  wet  Sunday,  pious  Scotch 
weavers  settled  near  Carlisle,  I  was  told,  were  in  the  habit 
of  walking  fifteen  miles  twice  for  their  sermon,  since  it  was 
not  to  be  had  nearer.  A  curious  phasis  of  things,  quite 
vanished  now,  with  whatever  of  divinity  and  good  was  in 
it,  and  whatever  of  merely  human  and  not  so  good. 
From  reflection  of  his  own,  aided  or  perhaps  awakened 
by  study  of  Adam  Hope  and  his  example  (for  I  think 
there  could  not  be  direct  speech  or  persuasion  from  Adam 
in  such  a  matter)  the  boy  Edward  joined  himself  to 
Adam's  pilgriming  group,  and  regularly  trotted  by  their 
side  to  Ecclefechan  for  sermon-listening,  and  occasionally 
joining  in  their  pious  discourse  thither  and  back.  He 
might  be  then  in  his  tenth  year  ;  distinguished  hitherto, 
both  his  elder  brother  John  and  he,  by  their  wild  love  of 
sport  as  well  as  readiness  in  school  lessons.  John  had 
quite  refused  this  Ecclefechan  adventure.  And  no  doubt 
done  what  he  could  to  prevent  it,  for  father  and  mother 
looked  on  it  likewise  with  dubious  or  disapproving  eyej  ; 


68  EDWARD    IRVING. 

"  Why  run  into  these  ultra  courses,  sirrah  ?  "  and  Edward 
had  no  furtherance  in  it  except  from  within.  How  long 
he  persisted  I  do  not  know,  possibly  a  year  or  two,  or  oc- 
casionally, almost  till  he  went  to  college.  I  have  heard 
him  speak  of  the  thing  long  afterwards  in  a  genially  mirth- 
ful way  ;  well  recognising  what  a  fantastic,  pitifully  pe- 
dantic, and  serio-ridiculous  set  these  road  companions  of 
his  mostly  were.  I  myself  remember  two  of  them  who 
were  by  no  means  heroic  to  me.  "  Willie  Drummond," 
a  little  man  with  mournful  goggle  eyes,  a  tailor  I  almost 
think,  and  "Joe  Blacklock  "  (Blai-lock)  a  rickety  stock- 
ing-weaver, with  protruding  chin  and  one  leg  too  short 
for  the  other  short  one,  who  seemed  to  me  an  abundantly 
solemn  and  much  too  infallible  and  captious  little  fellow. 
Edward  threw  me  off  with  gusto  outline  likenesses  of 
these  among  the  others,  and  we  laughed  heartily  without 
malice.  Edward's  religion  in  after  years,  though  it  ran 
always  in  the  blood  and  life  of  him,  was  never  shrieky  or 
narrow  ;  but  even  in  his  last  times,  with  their  miserable 
troubles  and  confusions,  spoke  always  with  a  sonorous 
deep  tone,  like  the  voice  of  a  man  frank  and  sincere  ad- 
dressing men.  To  the  last  or  almost  to  the  last  I  could 
occasionally  raise  a  genial  old  Annandale  laugh  out  of  him 
which  is  now  pathetic  to  me  to  remember. 

I  will  say  no  more  of  Irving's  boyhood.  He  must 
have  sat  often  enough  in  Ecclefechan  meeting-house 
along  with  me,  but  I  never  noticed  or  knew,  and  had  not 
indeed  heard  of  him  till  I  went  to  Annan  School  (1806  ; 
a  new  "  Academy  "  forsooth,  with  Adam  Hope  for  "  Eng- 
lish master,"),  and  Irving  perhaps  two  years  before  had 


EDWARD   IRVING.  69 

left  for  college.  I  must  bid  adieu  also  to  that  poor  temple 
of  my  childhood,  to  me  more  sacred  at  this  moment  than 
perhaps  the  biggest  cathedral  then  extant  could  have 
been  ;  rude,  rustic,  bare — no  temple  in  the  world  was 
more  so — but  there  were  sacred  lambencies,  tongues  of 
authentic  flame  from  heaven  which  kindled  what  was  best 
in  one,  what  has  not  yet  gone  out.  Strangely  vivid  to  me 
some  twelve  or  twenty  of  those  old  faces  whom  I  used  to 
see  every  Sunday,  whose  names,  employments,  precise 
dwelling-places  I  never  knew,  but  whose  portraits  are  yet 
clear  to  me  as  a  mirror — their  heavy-laden,  patient,  ever- 
attentive  faces.  Fallen  solitary  most  of  them.  Children 
all  away,  wife  away  forever,  or  it  might  be  wife  still 
there  (one  such  case  I  well  remember)  constant  like  a 
shadow  and  grown  very  like  her  old  man — the  thrifty, 
cleanly  poverty  of  these  good  people,  their  well-saved  old 
coarse  clothes  (tailed  waistcoats  down  to  mid-thigh,  a 
fashion  quite  dead  twenty  years  before)  ;  all  this  I  occa- 
sionally see  as  with  eyes  sixty  or  sixty-five  years  off,  and 
hear  the  very  voice  of  my  mother  upon  it  when  some- 
times I  would  be  questioning  about  the  persons  of  the 
drama  and  endeavouring  to  describe  and  identify  them  to 
her  for  that  purpose.  Oh,  ever-miraculous  time  !  O 
death  !     O  life  ! 

Probably  it  was  in  1808,  April  or  May,  after  college 
time,  that  I  first  saw  Irving.  I  had  got  over  my  worst 
miseries  in  that  doleful  and  hateful  "Academy"  life  of 
mine  (which  lasted  three  years  in  all) ;  had  begun,  in  spite 
of  precept,  to  strike  about  me,  to  defend  myself  by  hand 
and  voice  ;  had  made  some  comradeship  with  one  or  two 


-O  EDWARD   IRVING. 

of  my  own  age,  and  was  reasonably  becoming  alive  in  the 
place  and  its  interests.  I  remember  to  have  felt  some 
human  curiosity  and  satisfaction  when  the  noted  Edward 
Irving,  English  Mr.  Hope  escorting — introduced  himself 
in  our  Latin  class-room  one  bright  forenoon.  Hope  was 
essentially  the  introducer ;  this  was  our  rector's  class- 
room. Irving's  visit  to  the  school  had  been  specially  to 
Adam  Hope,  his  own  old  teacher,  who  now  brought  him 
down  nothing  loth.  Perhaps  our  Mathematics  gentleman, 
one  Morley  (an  excellent  Cumberland  man,  whom  I  loved 
much  and  who  taught  me  well)  had  also  stept  in  in  honour 
of  such  a  stranger.  The  road  from  Adam's  ^om  to  ours 
lay  through  Mr.  Morley's.  Ours  was  a  big  airy  room 
lighted  from  both  sides,  desks  and  benches  occupying 
scarcely  the  smaller  half  of  the  floor,  better  half  belonged 
to  the  rector,  and  to  the  classes  he  called  up  from  time  to 
time.  It  was  altogether  vacant  at  that  moment,  and  the 
interview  perhaps  often  to  fifteen  minutes  transacted  itself 
in  a  standing  posture  there.  We  were  all  of  us  attentive 
with  eye  and  ear,  or  as  attentive  as  we  durst  be,  while  by 
theory  "  preparing  our  lessons."  Irving  was  scrupulously 
dressed  ;  black  coat,  ditto  tight  pantaloons  in  the  fashion 
of  the  day  ;  clerically  black  his  prevailing  hue  ;  and 
looked  very  neat,  self-possessed,  and  enviable.  A  flour- 
ishing slip  of  a  youth,  with  coal-black  hair,  swarthy  clear 
complexion,  very  straight  on  his  feet,  and  except  for  the 
glaring  squint  alone,  decidedly  handsome.  We  didn't 
hear  everything  ;  indeed  we  heard  nothing  that  was  of 
the  least  moment  or  worth  rememberincr.  Gathered  in 
general  that  the  talk  was  all  about  Edinburgh,  of  this  pro- 


EDWARD    IRVING.  7l 

fessor  and  of  that,  and  their  merits  and  method  ("won- 
derful world  up  yonder,  and  this  fellow  has  been  in  it 
and  can  talk  of  it  in  that  easy  cool  way.")  The  last  pro- 
fessor touched  upon,  I  think,  must  have  been  mathe- 
matical Leslie  (at  that  time  totally  non-extant  to  me), 
for  the  one  particular  I  clearly  recollect  was  something 
from  Irving  about  new  doctrines  by  somebody  (doubt- 
less Leslie)  "  concerning  the  circle,"  which  last  word  he 
pronounced  "  circul "  with  a  certain  preciosity  which 
was  noticeable  slightly  in  other  parts  of  his  behaviour. 
Shortly  after  this  of  "  circul,"  he  courteously  (had  been 
very  courteous  all  the  time,  and  unassuming  in  the  main,) 
made  his  bow,  and  the  interview  melted  instantly  away. 
For  years  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  Lving's  face 
again. 

Seven  years  come  and  gone.  It  was  now  the  winter 
of  1815.  I  had  myself  been  in  Edinburgh  College,  and 
above  a  year  ago  had  duly  quitted  it.  Had  got  (by  com- 
petition at  Dumfries,  summer  1814)  to  be  "  mathematical 
master  "  in  Annan  Academy,  with  some  potential  outlook 
on  divinity  as  ultimatum  (a  rural  divinity  student  visiting 
Edinburgh  for  a  few  days  each  year,  and  "  delivering" 
certain  "  discourses  ").  Six  years  of  that  would  bring  you 
to  the  church  gate,  as  four  years  of  continuous  "  divinity 
hall  "  would  ;  unlucky  only  that  in  my  case  I  had  never 
had  the  least  enthusiasm  for  the  business  (and  there  were 
even  grave  prohibitive  doubts  more  and  more  rising 
ahead)  :  both  branches  of  my  situation  flatly  contradic- 
tory to  all  ideals  or  wishes  of  mine,  especially  the  Annan 
one,  as  the  closely  actual  and  the  daily  and  hourly  press- 


72  EDWARD   IRVING. 

ing  on  me,  while  the  other  lay  theoretic,  still  well  ahead, 
and  perhaps  avoidable.  One  attraction — one  only — there 
was  in  my  Annan  business.  I  was  supporting  myself,  even 
saving  some  few  pounds  of  my  poor  60/.  or  70/.  annually, 
against  a  rainy  day,  and  not  a  burden  to  my  ever-gener- 
ous father  any  more.  But  in  all  other  points  of  view  I 
was  abundantly  lonesome,  uncomfortable,  and  out  of 
place  there.  Didn't  go  and  visit  the  people  there.  (Ought 
to  have  pushed  myself  in  a  little  silently,  and  sought  invi- 
tations. Such  their  form  of  special  politeness,  which  I 
was  far  too  shy  and  proud  to  be  able  for.)  Had  the  char- 
acter of  morose  dissociableness  ;  in  short,  thoroughly  de- 
tested my  function  and  position,  though  understood  to  be 
honestly  doing  the  duties  of  it,  and  held  for  solacement 
and  company  to  the  few  books  I  could  command,  and  an 
accidental  friend  I  had  in  the  neighbourhood  (Mr.  Cherch 
and  his  wife,  of  Hitchill ;  Rev.  Henry  Duncan,  of  Ruth- 
well,  and  ditto.  These  were  the  two  bright  and  brightest 
houses  for  me.  My  thanks  to  them,  now  and  always). 
As  to  my  schoolmaster  function,  it  was  never  said  I  mis- 
did  it  much  ;  a  clear  and  correct  expositor  and  enforcer. 
But  from  the  first,  especially  with  such  adjuncts,  I  dis- 
liked it,  and  by  swift  degrees  grew  to  hate  it  more  and 
more.  Some  four  years  in  all  I  had  of  it ;  two  in  Annan, 
two  in  Kirkcaldy  under  much  improved  social  accompani- 
ments. And  at  the  end  my  solitary  desperate  conclusion 
was  fixed  :  that  I,  for  my  own  part,  would  prefer  to  per- 
ish in  the  ditch,  if  necessary,  rather  than  continue  living 
by  such  a  trade,  and  peremptorily  gave  it  up  accordingly. 
This  long  preface  will  serve  to  explain  the  small  passage 


EDWARD   IRVING.  73 

of  collision  that  occurred  between  Irving  and  me  on  our 
first  meeting  in  this  world. 

I  had  heard  much  of  Irving  all  along ;  how  distin- 
guished in  studies,  how  splendidly  successful  as  teacher, 
how  two  professors  had  sent  him  out  to  Haddington,  and 
how  his  new  Academy  and  new  methods  were  illuminat- 
ing and  astonishing  everything  there.  (Alas  !  there  was 
one  little  pupil  he  had  there,  with  her  prettiest  littlepenna 
peniKB  from  under  the  table,  and  let  me  be  a  boy  too, 
papa  !  who  was  to  be  of  endless  moment,  and  who  alone 
was  of  any  moment  to  me  in  all  that !)  I  don't  remem- 
ber any  malicious  envy  whatever  towards  this  great  Irving 
of  the  distance.  For  his  greatness  in  study  and  learning  I 
certainly  might  have  had  a  tendency,  hadn't  I  struggled 
against  it,  and  tried  to  make  it  emulation  :  "  Do  the  like, 
do  thou  the  like  under  difficulties  !  "  As  to  his  school- 
master success,  I  cared  little  about  that,  and  easily  flung 
that  out  when  it  came  across  me.  But  naturally  all  this 
betrumpeting  of  Irving  to  me  (in  which  I  could  sometimes 
trace  some  touch  of  malice  to  myself),  had  not  awakened 
in  me  any  love  towards  this  victorious  man.  "  Ich 
gonnte  Ihn,"  as  the  Germans  phrase  it ;  but,  in  all  strict- 
ness, nothing  more. 

About  Christmas  time  (1815)  I  had  gone  with  great 
pleasure  to  see  Edinburgh  again,  and  read  in  Divinity 
Hall  a  Latin  discourse — "exegesis"  they  call  it  there — 
on  the  question,  **  Nuni  detur  religio  natiiralis  ?  "  It  was 
the  second,  and  proved  to  be  the  last,  of  my  performances 
on  that  treatise.  My  first,  an  English  sermon  on  the 
words,  "Before  I  was  afflicted  I  went  astray,  but  now" 


74  EDWARD   IRVING. 

etc.,  etc.,  a  very  weak,  flowery,  and  sentimental  piece,  had 
been  achieved  in  1 814,  a  few  months  after  my  leaving  for 
Annan.  Piece  second,  too,  I  suppose,  was  weak  enough, 
but  I  still  remember  the  kind  of  innocent  satisfaction  I 
had  in  turning  it  into  Latin  in  my  solitude,  and  my  slight 
and  momentary  (by  no  means  deep  or  sincere)  sense  of 
pleasure  in  the  bits  of  compliments  and  flimsy  approba- 
tion from  comrades  and  professors  on  both  these  occa- 
sions. Before  Christmas  Day  I  had  got  rid  of  my  exege- 
sis, and  had  still  a  week  of  holiday  ahead  for  old  acquaint- 
ances and  Edinburgh  things,  which  was  the  real  charm  of 
my  official  errand  thither. 

One  night  I  had  gone  over  to  Rose  Street  to  a  certain 
Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  Waugh's,  there,  who  was  a  kind  of 
maternal  cousin  or  half-cousin  of  my  own.  Had  been  my 
school  comrade;  several  years  older;  item:  my  prede- 
cessor in  the  Annan  "mathematical  mastership;"  im- 
mediate successor  he  of  Morley,  and  a  great  favourite 
in  Annan  society  in  comparison  with  some  ;  and  who, 
though  not  without  gifts,  proved  gradually  to  be  intrinsi- 
cally a  fool,  and  by  his  insolvencies  and  confused  futilities 
as  doctor  there  in  his  native  place,  has  left  a  kind  of  re- 
membrance, ludicrous,  partly  contemptuous,  though  not 
without  kindliness  too,  and  even  something  of  respect. 
His  father,  wuth  whom  I  had  been  boarded  while  a  scholar 
at  Annan,  was  one  of  the  most  respectable  and  yet  laugh- 
able of  mankind ;  a  ludicrous  caricature  of  originality, 
honesty,  and  faithful  discernment  and  practice — all  in  the 
awkward  form.  Took  much  care  of  his  money,  however, 
which  this,  his  only  son,  had  now  inherited,  and  did  not 


EDWARD    IRVING.  75 

keep  very  long.  Of  Waugh  senior,  and  even  of  Waugh 
junior,  there  might  be  considerable  gossiping  and  quizzi- 
cal detailing.  They  failed  not  to  rise  now  and  then, 
especially  Waugh  senior  did  not,  between  Irving  and 
me,  always  with  hearty  ha-ha's,  and  the  finest  recognition 
on  Irving's  part  when  we  came  to  be  companions  after- 
wards. But  whither  am  I  running  with  so  interminable 
a  preface  to  one  of  the  smallest  incidents  conceivable  ? 

I  was  sitting  in  Waugh  junior's  that  evening,  not  too 
vigorously  conversing,   when  Waugh's  door  went  open, 
and  there  stept  in  Irving,  and  one  Nichol,  a  mathematical 
teacher  in  Edinburgh,  an  intimate  of  his,  a  shrewd,  merry, 
and  very  social  kind  of  person,  whom  I  did  not  then  know, 
except  by  name.      Irving  was  over,  doubtless  from  Kirk- 
caldy,  on  his  holidays,   and   had   probably  been   dining 
with  Nichol.     The  party  was  to  myself  not  unwelcome, 
though  somewhat  alarming.      Nichol,  I  perceived,  might 
be  by  some  three  or  four  years  the  eldest  of  us  ;  a  sharp 
man,  with  mouth  rather  quizzically  close.     I  was  by  some 
three  or  four  years  the  youngest ;  and  here  was  Trisme- 
gistus  Irving,  a  victorious  bashaw,  while  poor  I  was  so 
much  the  reverse.     The  conversation  in  a  minute  or  two 
became  quite  special,  and  my  unwilling  self  the  centre  of 
it;  Irving  directing  upon  me  a  whole  series  of  questions 
about  Annan   matters,    social    or   domestic    mostly ;    of 
which  I  knew  little,  and  had  less  than  no  wish  to  speak, 
though   I   strove   politely  to    answer   succinctly  what    I 
could.      In  the  good  Irving  all  this  was  very  natural,  nor 
was  there  in  him,  I  am  well  sure,  the  slightest  notion  to 
hurt  me  or  be  tyrannous  to  me.     Far  the  reverse  his 


•^^  EDWARD   IRVING. 

mood  at  all  times  towards  all  men.  But  there  was,  I 
conjecture,  something  of  conscious  unquestionable  supe- 
riority, of  careless  natural  de  haiit  en  bas  which  fretted 
on  me,  and  might  be  rendering  my  answers  more  and 
more  and  more  succinct.  Nay,  my  small  knowledge  was^. 
failing;  and  I  had  more  than  once  on  certain  points,  as 

"Has  Mrs.  ■  got  a  baby?  is  it  son  or  daughter?" 

and  the  like,  answered  candidly,  *'  I  don't  know." 

I  think  three  or  two  such  answers  to  such  questions 
had  followed  in  succession,  when  Irving,  feeling" uneasy, 
and  in  a  dim  manner  that  the  game  was  going  wrong, 
answered  in  gruffish  yet  not  illnatured  tone,  "You  seem 
to  know  nothing  !  "  To  which  I  with  prompt  emphasis, 
somewhat  provoked,  replied  :  "  Sir,  by  what  right  do 
you  try  my  knowledge  in  this  way  ?  Are  you  grand 
inquisitor,  or  have  you  authority  to  question  people  and 
cross-question  at  discretion  ?  I  have  had  no  interest  to 
inform  myself  about  the  births  in  Annan,  and  care  not  if 
the  process  of  birth  and  generation  there  should  cease 
and  determine  altogether!"  "A  bad  example  that," 
cried  Nichol,  breaking  into  laughter ;  "  that  would  never 
do  for  me  (a  fellow  that  needs  pupils) ;  "  and  laughed 
heartily,  joined  by  Waugh,  and  perhaps  Irving,  so  that 
the  thing  passed  off  more  smoothly  than  might  have  been 
expected  ;  though  Irving,  of  course,  felt  a  little  hurt,  and 
I  think  did  not  altogether  hide  it  from  me  while  the  inter- 
view still  lasted,  which  was  only  a  short  while.  This  was 
my  first  meeting  with  the  man  whom  I  had  afterwards, 
and  very  soon,  such  cause  to  love.  We  never  spoke  of 
this  small  unpleasant  passage  of  fence,   I  believe,   and 


EDWARD   IRVING.  77 

there  never  was  another  like  it  between  us  in  the  world. 
Irving  did  not  want  some  due  heat  of  temper,  and  there 
was  a  kind  of  joyous  swagger  traceable  in  his  manner  in 
this  prosperous  young  time  ;  but  the  basis  of  him  at  all 
times  was   fine  manly  sociality,   and  the  richest,  truest 
good  nature.     Very  different  from  the  new  friend  he  was 
about  picking  up.     No  swagger  in  this  latter,  but  a  want 
of  it  which  was  almost   still  worse.     Not  sanguine  and 
diffusive  he,  but  biliary  and  intense.     "  Far  too  sarcastic 
for  a  young  man,"  said  several  in  the  years  now  coming. 
Within  six  or  eight  months  of  this,  probably  about 
the   end    of  July    1816,   happened  a  new   meeting  with 
Irving.     Adam  Hope's   wife   had  died   of  a   sudden.     I 
went  up  the  second  or  third  evening  to  testify  my  silent 
condolence  with  the  poor  old  man.     Can  still  remember 
his  gloomy  look,  speechless,  and  the  thankful  pressure  of 
his  hand.     A  number  of  people  were  there  ;  among  the 
rest,    to    my   surprise,    Irving — home    on   his   Kirkcaldy 
holidays — who  seemed  to  be  kindly  taking  a  sort  of  lead 
in  the  little  managements.     He  conducted  worship,  I  re- 
member,  "  taking   the   Book,"   which  was   the   only  fit 
thing  he  could  settle  to,  and  he  did  it  in  a  free,  flowing, 
modest,   and   altogether  appropriate  manner,    '' precent- 
ing,"    or    leading    off  the    Psalm    too    himself,    his  voice 
melodiously  strong,   and   his   tune,   "St.    Paul's,"    truly 
sung,  which  was  a  new  merit  in  him  to  me.     Quite  be- 
yond my  own  capacities  at  that  time.      If  I  had  been  in 
doubts  about  his  reception    of  me,  after   that   of  Rose 
Street,  Edinburgh,  he  quickly  and  for  ever  ended  them 
by  a  friendliness  which,  in  wider  scenes,  might  have  been 


78  .  EDWARD   IRVING. 

called  chivalrous.  At  first  sight  he  heartily  shook  my 
hand,  welcomed  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  valued  old  ac- 
quaintance, almost  a  brother,  and  before  my  leaving, 
after  worship  was  done,  came  up  to  me  again,  and  with 
the  frankest  tone  said  :  "  You  are  coming  to  Kirkcaldy 
to  look  about  you  in  a  month  or  two.  You  know  I  am 
there.  My  house  and  all  that  I  can  do  for  you  is  yours  : 
two  Annandale  people  must  not  be  strangers  in  Fife  !  " 
The  •'  doubting  Thomas  "  durst  not  quite  believe  all  this, 
so  chivalrous  was  it,  but  felt  pleased  and  relieved  by  the 
fine  and  sincere  tone  of  it,  and  thought  to  himself,  "  Well, 
it  would  be  pretty  !  " 

But  to  understand  the  full  chivalry  of  Irving,  know 
first  what  my  errand  to  Kirkcaldy  now  was. 

Several  months  before  this,  rumours  had  come  of 
some  break-up  in  Irving's  triumphant  Kirkcaldy  king- 
dom. "  A  terribly  severe  master,  isn't  he?  Brings  his 
pupils  on  amazingly.  Yes,  truly,  but  at  such  an  expense 
of  cruelty  to  them.  Very  proud,  too  ;  no  standing  of 
him  ;  "  him,  the  least  cruel  of  men,  but  obliged  and  ex- 
pected to  go  at  high-pressure  speed,  and  no  resource  left 
but  that  of  spurring  on  the  laggard.  In  short,  a  portion, 
perhaps  between  a  third  and  fourth  part,  of  Irving's  Kirk- 
caldy patrons,  feeling  these  griefs,  and  finding  small  com- 
fort or  result  in  complaining  to  Irving,  had  gradually 
determined  to  be  off  from  him,  and  had  hit  upon  a 
resource  which  they  thought  would  serve.  "  Buy  off  the 
old  parish  head  schoolmaster,"  they  said  ;  "let  Hume 
have  his  25/.  of  salary  and  go,  the  lazy,  effete  old  crea- 
ture.    We  will  apply  again  to  Professors  Christison  and 


EDWARD   IRVING.  79 

Leslie,  the  same  who  sent  us  Irving,  to  send  us  another 
'  classical  and  mathematical '  who  can  start  fair."  And 
accordingly,  by  a  letter  from  Christison,  who  had  never 
noticed  me  while  in  his  class,  nor  could  distinguish  me 
from  another  Mr.  Irving  Carlyle,  an  older,  considerably 
bigger  boy,  with  red  hair,  wild  buck  teeth,  and  scorched 
complexion,  and  the  ivorst  Latinist  of  all  my  acquaint- 
ance (so  dark  was  the  good  professor's  class  room,  phys- 
ically and  otherwise),  I  learnt,  much  to  my  surprise  and 
gratification,  "  that  Professor  Leslie  had  been  with  him, 
that  etc.  etc.,  as  above,  and  in  brief,  that  I  was  the  nomi- 
nee if  I  would  accept."  Several  letters  passed  on  the 
subject,  and  it  had  been  settled,  shortly  before  this  meet- 
ing with  Irving,  that  I  was  in  my  near  vacation  time — 
end  of  August — to  visit  Kirkcaldy,  take  a  personal  view 
of  everything,  and  then  say  yes  if  I  could,  as  seemed 
likely. 

Thus  stood  matters  when  Irving  received  me  in  the 
way.  described.  Noble,  I  must  say,  when  you  put  it 
altogether  !  Room  for  plenty  of  the  vulgarest  peddling 
feelings  there  was,  and  there  must  still  have  been  be- 
tween us,  had  either  of  us,  especially  had  Irving,  been  of 
pedlar  nature.  And  I  can  say  there  could  no  two 
Kaisers,  nor  Charlemagne  and  Barbarossa,  had  they 
neighboured  one  another  in  the  empire  of  Europe,  been 
more  completely  rid  of  all  that  sordes,  than  were  we  two 
schoolmasters  in  the  burgh  of  Kirkcaldy.  \  made  my 
visit,  August  coming,  which  was  full  of  interest  to  me. 
Saw  St.  Andrews,  etc.  ;  saw  a  fine,  frank,  wholesome- 
looking  people   of  the  burgher  grandees  ;    liked    Irving 


8o  EDWARD   IRVING. 

more  and  more,  and  settled  to  return  in  a  couple  of 
months  "  for  good/'  which  I  may  well  say  it  was,  thanks 
to  Irving  principally. 

George  Irving,  Edward's  youngest  brother  (who  died 
in  London  as  M.D.,  beginning  practice  about  1833), 
had  met  me  as  he  returned  from  his  lessons,  when  \  first 
came  along  the  street  of  Kirkcaldy  on  that  sunny  after- 
noon (August  1 8 16,)  and  with  blithe  looks  and  words  had 
pointed  out  where  his  brother  lived — a  biggish,  simple 
house  on  the  sands.  The  when  of  my  first  call  there  I  do 
not  now  remember,  but  have  still  brightly  in  mind  how 
exuberantly  good  Irving  was  ;  how  he  took  me  into  his 
library,  a  rough,  littery,  but  considerable  collection — far 
beyond  what  I  had — and  said,  cheerily  flinging  out  his 
arms,  "  Upon  all  these  you  have  will  and  waygate,"  an 
expressive  Annandale  phrase  of  the  completest  welcome, 
which  I  failed  not  of  using  by-and-by.  I  also  recollect 
lodging  with  him  for  a  night  or  two  nights  about  that 
time.  Bright  moonshine  ;  waves  all  dancing  and  glanc- 
ing out  of  window,  and  beautifully  humming  and  lullaby- 
ing  on  that  fine  long  sandy  beach,  where  he  and  I  so 
often  walked  and  communed  afterwards.  From  the  first 
we  honestly  liked  one  another  and  grew  intimate,  nor 
was  there  ever,  while  we  both  lived,  any  cloud  or  grudge 
between  us,  or  an  interruption  of  our  feelings  for  a  day  or 
hour.  Blessed  conquest  of  a  friend  in  this  world  !  That 
was  mainly^  all  the  wealth  I  had  for  five  or  six  years 
coming,  and  it  made  my  life  in  Kirkcaldy  (i.e.  till  near 
1 8 19,  I  think),  a  happy  season  in  comparison,  and  a 
genially    useful.       Youth    itself — healthy,    well-intending 


EDWARD    IRVING.  8 1 

youth — is  so  full  of  opulences.  I  always  rather  like  Kirk- 
caldy to  this  day.  Annan  the  reverse  rather  still  when 
its  gueuseries  come  into  my  head,  and  my  solitary  quasi- 
enchanted  position  among  them — unpermitted  to  kick 
them  into  the  sea, 

Irving's  library  was  of  great  use  to  me  ;  Gibbon, 
Hume,  etc.  I  think  I  must  have  read  it  almost  through. 
Inconceivable  to  me  now  with  what  ardour,  with  what 
greedy  velocity,  literally  above  ten  times  the  speed  I  can 
now  make  with  any  book.  Gibbon,  in  particular,  I  recol- 
lect to  have  read  at  the  rate  of  a  volume  a  day  (twelve 
volumes  in  all)  ;  and  I  have  still  a  fair  recollection  of  it, 
though  seldom  looking  into  it  since.  It  was,  of  all  the 
books,  perhaps  the  most  impressive  on  me  in  my  then 
stage  of  investigation  and  state  of  mind.  I  by  no  means 
completely  admired  Gibbon,  perhaps  not  more  than  I  now 
do  ;  but  his  winged  sarcasms,  so  quiet  and  yet  so  con- 
clusively transpiercing  and  killing  dead,  were  often  ad- 
mirable potent  and  ilHuminative  to  me.  Nor  did  I  fail  to 
recognise  his  great  power  of  investigating,  ascertaining, 
grouping,  and  narrating  ;  though  the  latter  had  always, 
then  as  now,  something  of  a  Drury  Lane  character,  the 
colours  strong  but  coarse,  and  set  off  by  lights  from  the 
side  scenes.  We  had  books  from  Edinburgh  College 
Library,  too.  (I  remember  Bailly's  "  Histoire  de  I'As- 
tronomie,"  ancient  and  also  modern,  which  considerably 
disappointed  me.)  On  Irving's  shelves  were  the  small 
Didot  French  classics  in  quantity.  With  my  appetite 
sharp,  I  must  have  read  of  French  and  English  (for 
I    don't   recollect  much    classicality,   only  something    of 


82  EDWARD   IRVING. 

mathematics  in  intermittent  spasms),  a  great  deal  during 
those  years. 

Irving  himself,  I  found,  was  not,  nor  had  been,  much 
of  a  reader  ;  but  he  had,  with  solid  ingenuity  and  judg- 
ment, by  some  briefer  process  of  his  own,  fished  out  cor- 
rectly from  many  books  the  substance  of  what  they  han- 
dled, and  of  what  conclusions  they  came  to.  This  he 
possessed,  and  could  produce  in  an  "honest"  manner, 
always  when  occasion  came.  He  delighted  to  hear  me 
give  accounts  of  my  reading,  which  were  often  enough  a 
theme  between  us,  and  to  me  as  well  a  profitable  and 
pleasant  one.  He  had  gathered  by  natural  sagacity  and 
insight,  from  conversation  and  enquiry,  a  great  deal  of 
practical  knowledge  and  information  on  things  extant 
round  him,  which  was  quite  defective  in  me  the  recluse. 
We  never  wanted  for  instructive  and  pleasant  talk  while 
together.  He  had  a  most  hearty,  if  not  very  refined, 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  ;  a  broad  genial  laugh  in  him  al- 
ways ready.  His  wide  just  sympatTiies,  his  native  saga- 
cities, honest-heartedness,  and  good  humour,  made  him 
the  most  delightful  of  companions.  Such  colloquies  and 
such  rovings  about  in  bright  scenes,  in  talk  or  in  silence, 
I  have  never  had  since. 

The  beach  of  Kirkcaldy  in  summer  twilights,  a  mile 
of  the  smoothest  sand,  with  one  long  wave  coming  on 
gently,  steadily,  and  breaking  in  gradual  explosion  into 
harmless  melodious  white,  at  your  hand  all  the  way  ;  the 
break  of  it  rushing  along  like  a  mane  of  foam,  beautifully 
sounding  and  advancing,  ran  from  south  to  north,  from 
the  West  Burn  to  Kirkcaldy  harbour,  through  the  whole 


EDWARD   IRVING.  83 

mile's  distance.  This  was  a  favourite  scene,  beautiful  to 
me  still,  in  the  far  away.  We  roved  in  the  woods  too, 
sometimes  till  all  was  dark.  I  remember  very  pleasant 
strolls  to  Dysart,  and  once  or  twice  to  the  caves  and 
queer  old  saltworks  of  Wemyss.  Once,  on  a  meniorable 
Saturday,  we  made  a  pilgrimage  to  hear  Dr.  Chalmers  at 
Dunfermline  the  morrow.  It  was  on  the  inducting  young 
3fr.  Chalmers  as  minister  there  ;  Chalmers  minimus,  as 
he  soon  got  named.  The  great  Chalmers  was  still  in  the 
first  flush  of  his  long  and  always  high  popularity,  "  Let 
us  go  and  hear  him  once  more,"  said  Irving.  The  sum- 
mer afternoon  was  beautiful  ;  beautiful  exceedingly  our 
solitary  walk  by  Burntisland  and  the  sands  and  rocks  to 
Inverkeithing,  where  we  lodged,  still  in  a  touchingly 
beautiful  manner  (host  the  schoolmaster,  one  Douglas 
from  Haddington,  a  clever  old  acquaintance  of  Irving's, 
in  after  years  a  Radical  editor  of  mark  ;  whose  wife,  for 
thrifty  order,  admiration  of  her  husband,  etc.  etc.,  was  a 
model  and  exemplar).  Four  miles  next  morning  to  Dun- 
fermline and  its  crowded  day,  Chalmers  maximus  not 
disappointing  ;  and  the  fourteen  miles  to  Kirkcaldy  end- 
ing in  late  darkness,  in  rain,  and  thirsty  fatigue,  which 
were  cheerfully  borne. 

Another  time,  military  tents  were  noticed  on  the  Lo- 
mond Hills  (on  the  eastern  of  the  two).  "Trigonometri- 
cal survey,"  said  we;  "  Ramsden's  theodolite,  and  what 
not ;  "  let  us  go.  And  on  Saturday  we  went.  Beautiful 
the  airy  prospect  from  that  eastern  Lomond  far  and  wide. 
Five  or  six  tents  stood  on  the  top  ;  one  a  black-stained 
cooking  one,  with  a  heap  of  coals  close  by,  the  rest  all 


84  EDWARD   IRVING. 

closed  and  occupants  gone,  except  one  other,  partly  open 
at  the  eaves,  through  which  you  could  look  in  and  see  a 
bio"  circular  mahogany  box  (which  we  took  to  be  the  the- 
odolite), and  a  saucy-looking,  cold  official  gentleman  dili- 
gently walking  for  exercise,  no  observation  being  possible 
though  the  day  was  so  bright.  No  admittance,  however. 
Plenty  of  fine -country  people  had  come  up,  to  whom  the 
official  had  been  coldly  monosyllabic,  as  to  us  also  he  was. 
Polite,  with  a  shade  of  contempt,  and  unwilling  to  let 
himself  into  speech.  Irving  had  great  skill  in  these  cases. 
He  remarked — and  led  us  into  remarking — courteously 
this  and  that  about  the  famous  Ramsden  and  his  instru- 
ment, about  the  famous  Trigonometrical  Survey,  and  so 
forth,  till  the  official,  in  a  few  minutes,  had  to  melt  ;  in- 
vited us  exceptionally  in  for  an  actual  inspection  of  his 
theodolite,  which  we  reverently  enjoyed,  and  saw  through 
it  the  signal  column,  a  great  broad  plank  he  told  us,  on 
the  top  of  Ben  Lomond,  sixty  miles  off,  wavering  and 
shivering  like  a  bit  of  loose  tape,  so  that  no  observation 
could  be  had. 

We  descended  the  hill  re  facta.  Were  to  lodge  in 
Leslie  with  the  minister  there  ;  where,  possibly  enough, 
Irving  had  engaged  to  preach  for  him  next  day.  I  re- 
member a  sight  of  Falkland  ruined  palace,  black,  sternly 
impressive  on  me,  as  we  came  down  ;  like  a  black  old  bit 
of  coffin  or  '"  protrusive  shin  bone,"  sticking  through  from 
the  soil  of  the  dead  past.  The  kirk,  too,  of  next  day  I 
remember,  and  a  certain  tragical  Countess  of  Rothes. 
She  had  been  at  school  in  London  ;  fatherless.  In  morn- 
ing walk  in  the  Regent's  Park  she  had  noticed  a  young 


EDWARD   IRVING.  85 

gardener,  had  transiently  glanced  into  him,  he  into  her  ; 
and  had  ended  by  marrying  him,  to  the  horror  of  soci- 
ety, and  ultimately  of  herself,  I  suppose ;  for  he  seemed 
to  be  a  poor  little  common-place  creature,  as  he  stood 
there  beside  her.  She  was  now  an  elderly,  a  stately 
woman,  of  resolute  look  though  slightly  sad,  and  didn't 
seem  to  solicit  pity.  Her  I  clearly  remember,  but  not 
who  preached,  or  what;  and,  indeed,  both  ends  of  this 
journey  are  abolished  to  me  as  if  they  had  never  been. 

Our  voyage  to  Inchkeith  one  afternoon  was  again  a 
wholly  pleasant  adventure,  though  one  of  the  rashest. 
There  were  three  of  us ;  Irving's  assistant  the  third,  a 
hardy,  clever  kind  of  man  named  Donaldson,  of  Aberdeen 
origin — Professor  Christison's  nephew — whom  I  always 
rather  liked,  but  who  before  long,  as  he  could  never  burst 
the  shell  of  expert  schoolmastering  and  gerund  grinding, 
got  parted  from  me  nearly  altogether.  Our  vessel  was  a 
rowboat  belonging  to  some  neighbours  ;  in  fact,  a  trim 
yawl  with  two  oars  in  it  and  a  bit  of  helm,  reputed  to  be 
somewhat  crazy  and  cranky  hadn't  the  weather  been  so 
fine.  Nor  was  Inchkeith  our  original  aim.  Our  aim  had 
been  as  follows.  A  certain  Mr.  Glen,  Burgher  minister 
at  Annan,  with  whom  I  had  lately  boarded  there,  and  been 
domestically  very  happy  in  comparison,  had  since,  after 
very  painful  and  most  undeserved  treatment  from  his  con- 
gregation, seen  himself  obliged  to  quit  the  barren  wasp's 
nest  of  a  thing  altogether,  and  with  his  wife  and  young 
family  embark  on  a  missionary  career,  which  had  been 
his  earliest  thought,  as  conscience  now  reminded  him, 
among  other  considerations.     He  was  a  most  pure  and 


S6  EDWARD   IRVING. 

excellent  man,  of  correct  superior  intellect,  and  of  much 
modest  piety  and  amiability.  Things  were  at  last  all 
ready,  and  he  and  his  were  come  to  Edinburgh  to  embark 
for  Astrachan  ;  where,  or  whereabouts,  he  continued  dili- 
gent and  zealous  for  many  years  ;  and  was  widely  es- 
teemed, not  by  the  missionary  classes  alone.  Irving,  as 
well  as  I,  had  an  affectionate  regard  for  Glen,  and  on  Sat- 
urday eve  of  Glen's  last  Sunday  in  Edinburgh,  had  come 
across  with  me  to  bid  his  brave  wife  and  him  farewell ; 
Edinburgh  from  Saturday  afternoon  till  the  last  boat  on 
Sunday  evening.  This  was  every  now  and  then  a  cheery 
little  adventure  of  ours,  always  possible  again  after  due 
pause.  We  found  the  Glens  in  an  inn  in  the  Grass  Mar- 
ket, only  the  mistress,  who  was  a  handsome,  brave,  and 
cheery-hearted  woman,  altogether  keeping  up  her  spirits. 
I  heard  Glen  preach  for  the  last  time,  in  "  Peddie's  Meet- 
ing-house," a  large,  fine  place  behind  Bristo  Street — night 
just  sinking  as  he  ended,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  betoken- 
ing how  full  the  heart  was.  At  the  door  of  Peddie's  house 
I  stopped  to  take  leave.  Mrs.  Glen  alone  was  there  for 
me  (Glen  not  to  be  seen  farther).  She  wore  her  old  bright 
saucily-affectionate  smile,  fearless,  superior  to  trouble; 
but,  in  a  moment,  as  I  took  her  hand  and  said,  "  Fare- 
well, then,  good  be  ever  with  you,"  she  shot  all  pale  as 
paper,  and  we  parted  mournfully  without  a  word  more. 
This  sudden  paleness  of  the  spirited  w^oman  stuck  in  my 
heart  like  an  arrow.  All  that  night  and  for  some  three 
days  more  I  had  such  a  bitterness  of  sorrow  as  I  hardly 
recollect  otherwise.  "  Parting  sadder  than  by  death,'" 
thought  I,  in  my  foolish  inexperience  ;  "  these  good  peo- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  87 

pie  are  to  live,  and  we  are  never  to  behold  each  other 
more."  Strangely,  too,  after  about  four  days  it  went 
quite  off,  and  I  felt  it  no  more.  This  was,  perhaps,  still 
the  third  day  ;  at  all  events,  it  was  the  day  of  Glen's  sail- 
ing for  St.  Petersburg,  while  Irving  and  I  went  watching 
from  Kirkcaldy  sands  the  Leith  ships  outward  bound,  af- 
ternoon sunny,  tide  ebbing,  and  settled  with  ourselves 
which  of  the  big  ships  was  Glen's.  "That  one  surely," 
we  said  at  last;  "and  it  bends  so  much  this  way  one 
might,  by  smart  rowing,  cut  into  it,  and  have  still  a  word 
with  the  poor  Glens. "  Of  nautical  conclusions  none  could 
be  falser,  more  ignorant,  but  we  instantly  set  about  exe- 
cuting it ;  hailed  Donaldson,  who  was  somewhere  within 
reach,  shoved  "  Robie  Greg's  "  poor  green-painted,  rickety 
yawl  into  the  waves  (Robie,  a  good  creature  who  would 
rejoice  to  have  obliged  us),  and  pushed  out  with  our  best 
speed  to  intercept  that  outward-bound  big  ship.  Irving, 
I  think,  though  the  strongest  of  us,  rather  preferred  the 
helm  part  then  and  afterwards,  and  did  not  much  take  the 
oar  when  he  could  honourably  help  it.  His  steering,  I 
doubt  not,  was  perfect,  but  in  the  course  of  half-an-hour  it 
became  ludicrously  apparent  that  we  were  the  tortoise 
chasing  the  hare,  and  that  we  should  or  could  in  no  wise 
ever  intercept  that  big  ship.  Short  counsel  thereupon, 
and  determination,  probably  on  my  hint,  to  make  for  Inch- 
keith  at  least,  and  treat  ourselves  to  a  visit  there. 

We  prosperously  reached  Inchkeith,  ran  ourselves  into 
a  wild  stony  little  bay  (west  end  of  the  island  towards  the 
lighthouse),  and  stept  ashore.  Bay  in  miniature  was 
prettily  savage,  every  stone  in  it,  big  or  little,  lying  just 


88  EDWARD   IRVING. 

as  the  deluges  had  left  thcni  in  ages  long  gone.  Whole 
island  was  prettily  savage.  Grass  on  it  mostly  wild  and 
scraggy,  but  equal  to  the  keep  of  seven  cows.  Some 
patches  (little  bed-quilts  as  it  were)  of  weak  dishevelled 
barley  trying  to  grow  under  difficulties  ;  these,  except 
perhaps  a  square  yard  or  two  of  potatoes  equally  ill  off, 
w^erc  the  only  attempt  at  crop.  Inhabitants  none  except 
these  seven  cows,  and  the  lighthouse-keeper  and  his 
family.  Conies  probably  abounded,  but  these  wcxt  ferce 
naturce,  and  didn't  show  face.  In  a  slight  hollow  about 
the  centre  of  the  island  (which  island  I  think  is  traversed 
by  a  kind  of  hollow  of  which  our  little  bay  was  the  west- 
ern end)  were  still  traceable  some  ghastly  remnants  of 
"  Russian  graves,"  graves  from  a  Russian  squadron  which 
had  wintered  thereabouts  in  1799  and  had  there  buried  its 
dead.  Squadron  we  had  often  heard  talked  of,  what  foul 
creatures  these  Russian  sailors  were,  how  (for  one  thing) 
returning  from  their  sprees  in  Edinburgh  at  late  hours, 
they  used  to  climb  the  lamp-posts  in  Leith  Walk  and 
drink  out  the  train  oil  irresistible  by  vigilance  of  the  po- 
lice, so  that  Leith  Walk  fell  ever  and  anon  into  a  more  or 
less  eclipsed  condition  during  their  stay  !  Some  rude 
wooden  crosses,  rank  wild  grass,  and  poor  sad  grave  hil- 
locks almost  abolished,  were  all  of  memorial  they  had 
left.  The  lighthouse  was  curious  to  us  ;  the  only  one  I 
ever  saw  before  or  since.  The  "  revolving  light "  not 
produced  by  a  single  lamp  on  its  axis,  but  by  ten  or  a 
dozen  of  them  all  set  in  a  v/ide  glass  cylinder,  each  with 
its  hollow  mirror  behind  it,  cylinder  alone  slowly  turning, 
was  quite  a  discovery  to  us.     Lighthouse-keeper  too  in 


EDWARD    IRVING.  89 

another  sphere  of  enquiry  was  to  me  quite  new  ;  by  far 
the  most  Hfe-weary  looking  mortal  I  ever  saw.  Surely  no 
lover  of  the  picturesque,  for  in  nature  there  was  nowhere 
a  more  glorious  view.  He  had  seven  cows  too,  was  well 
fed,  I  saw,  well  clad,  had  wife  and  children  fairly  eligible 
looking.  A  shrewd  healthy  Aberdeen  native  ;  his  light- 
house, especially  his  cylinder  and  lamps,  all  kept  shining 
like  a  new  shilling — a  kindly  man  withal — yet  in  every 
feature  of  face  and  voice  telling  you,  "  Behold  the  victim 
of  unspeakable  ennui."  We  got  from  him  down  below 
refection  of  the  best,  biscuits  and  new  milk  I  think  almost 
better  in  both  kinds  than  I  have  tasted  since.  A  man  not 
greedy  of  money  either.  We  left  him  almost  sorrowfully, 
and  never  heard  of  him  more. 

The  scene  in  our  little  bay,  as  we  were  about  proceed- 
ing to  launch  our  boat,  seemed  to  me  the  beautifullest  I 
had  ever  beheld.  Sun  about  setting  just  in  face  of  us, 
behind  Ben  Lomond  far  away.  Edinburgh  with  its  tow- 
ers :  the  great  silver  mirror  of  the  Frith  girt  by  such  a 
framework  of  mountains  ;  cities,  rocks  and  fields  and  wavy 
landscapes  on  all  hands  of  us  ;  and  reaching  right  under 
foot,  as  I  remember,  came  a  broad  pillar  as  of  gold  from 
the  just  sinking  sun  ;  burning  axle  as  it  were  going  down 
to  the  centre  of  the  world  !  But  we  had  to  bear  a  hand 
and  get  our  boat  launched,  daylight  evidently  going  to 
end  by  and  by.  Kirkcaldy  was  some  five  miles  off,  and 
probably  the  tide  not  in  our  favour.  Gradually  the  stars 
came  out,  and  Kirkcaldy  crept  under  its  coverlid,  showing 
not  itself  but  its  lights.  We  could  still  see  one  another  in 
the  fine  clear  grey,  and  pulled  along  what  we  could.     We 


90  EDWARD    IRVING. 

had  no  accident ;  not  the  least  ill-luck.  Donaldson,  and 
perhaps  Ir\ing  too  I  now  think,  wore  some  air  of  anxiety. 
I  myself  by  my  folly  felt  nothing,  though  I  now  almost 
shudder  on  looking  back.  We  leapt  out  on  Kirkcaldy 
beach  about  eleven  P.M.,  and  then  heard  sufficiently  what 
a  misery  and  tremor  for  us  various  friends  had  been  in. 

This  was  the  small  adventure  to  Inchkeith.  Glen  and 
family  returned  to  Scotland  some  fifteen  years  ago  ;  he 
had  great  approval  from  his  public,  but  died  in  a  year  or 
two,  and  I  had  never  seen  him  again.  His  widow,  backed 
by  various  Edinburgh  testimonials,  applied  to  Lord 
Aberdeen  (Prime  Minister)  for  a  small  pension  on  the 
"  Literary  list."  Husband  had  translated  the  Bible  (or 
New  Testament)  into  Persic,  among  other  public  merits 
non-literary  :  and  through  her  son  solicited  and  urged  me 
to  help,  which  I  did  zealously,  and  by  continual  dunning 
of  the  Duke  of  Argyll  (whom  I  did  not  then  personally 
know  and  who  was  very  good  and  patient  with  me),  an 
annual  50/.  was  at  last  got;  upon  which  Mrs.  Glen,  add- 
ing to  it  some  other  small  resources,  could  frugally  but 
comfortably  live.  This  must  have  been  in  1853.  I  re- 
member the  young  Glen's  continual  importunity  in  the 
midst  of  my  Friedrich  incipiencies  was  not  always  pleas- 
ant, and  my  chief  comfort  in  it  was  the  pleasure  which 
success  would  give  my  mother.  Alas,  my  good  mother 
did  hear  of  it,  but  pleasure  even  in  this  was  beyond  her 
in  the  dark  valley  she  was  now  travelling  !  When  she 
died  (Christmas  1853),  one  of  my  reflections  was  :  "  Too 
Jate  for  her  that  little  bit  of  kindness  ;  my  last  poor  effort, 
md  it  came  too  late."     Young  Glen  with  his  too  profuse 


EDWARD    IRVING.  .  9 1 

thanks  etc.  was  again  rather  importunate.  Poor  young 
soul,  he  is  since  dead.  His  mother  appeared  in  person 
one  morning  at  my  door  in  Edinburgh  (last  spring  (1866), 
in  those  Rector  hurries  and  hurlyburlies  now  so  sad  to 
me) ;  T.  Erskine  just  leading  me  off  somewhither.  An 
aged  decent  widow,  looking  kindly  on  me  and  modestly 
thankful  ;  so  changed  I  could  not  have  recognised  a  fea- 
ture of  her.  How  tragic  to  one  is  the  sight  of  "  old 
friends"  ;  a  thing  I  always  really  shrink  from.  Such  my 
lot  has  been  ! 

Irving's  visits  and  mine  to  Edinburgh  were  mostly 
together,  and  had  always  their  attraction  for  us  in  the 
meeting  with  old  acquaintances  and  objects  of  interest, 
but  except  from  the  books  procured  could  not  be  accounted 
of  importance.  Our  friends  were  mere  ex-students, 
cleverish  people  mostly,  but  of  no  culture  or  information  ; 
no  aspiration  beyond  (on  the  best  possible  terms)  bread 
and  cheese.  Their  talk  in  good  part  was  little  else  than 
gossip  and  more  or  less  ingenious  giggle.  We  lived 
habitually  by  their  means  in  a  kind  of  Edinburgh  ele- 
ment, not  in  the  still  baser  Kirkcaldy  one,  and  that  was 
all.  Irving  now  and  then  perhaps  called  on  some  city 
clergyman,  but  seemed  to  have  little  esteem  of  them  by 
his  reports  to  me  afterwards.  I  myself  by  this  time  was 
indifferent  on  that  head.  On  one  of  those  visits  my  last 
feeble  tatter  of  connection  with  Divinity  Hall  affairs  or 
clerical  outlooks  was  allowed  to  snap  itself  and  fall  defi- 
nitely to  the  ground.  Old  Dr.  Ritchie  "  not  at  home" 
when  I  called  to  enter  myself.  "  Good  !  "  answered  I  ; 
"  let  the  omen  be  fulfilled."     Irving  on  the  contrary  was 


92  EDWARD    IRVING. 

being  licensed — probably  through  Annan  Presbytery ; 
but  I  forget  the  when  and  where,  and  indeed  conjecture 
it  may  hav^e  been  before  my  coming  to  Kirkcaldy.  What 
alone  I  well  remember  is  his  often  and  ever  notable 
preaching  in  those  Kirkcaldy  years  of  mine.  This  gave 
him  an  interest  in  conspicuous  clergymen — even  if  stupid 
— which  I  had  not.  Stupid  those  Edinburgh  clergy  were 
not  at  all  by  any  means  ;  but  narrow,  ignorant,  and  bar- 
ren to  us  two,  they  without  exception  were. 

In  Kirkcaldy  circles  (for  poor  Kirkcaldy  had  its  circles 
and  even  its  West  end,  much  more  genial  to  me  than 
Annan  used  to  be)  Irving  and  I  seldom  or  never  met ;  he 
little  frequented  them,  I  hardly  at  all.  The  one  house 
where  I  often  met  him,  besides  his  own,  was  the  Manse, 
Rev.  Mr.  Martin's,  which  was  a  haunt  of  his,  and  where, 
for  his  sake  partly,  I  was  always  welcome.  There  was  a 
feeble  intellectuality  current  here  ;  the  minister  was  a 
precise,  innocent,  didactic  kind  of  man,  and  I  now  and 
then  was  willing  enough  to  step  in,  though  various  boys 
and  girls  went  cackling  about,  and  Martin  himself  was 
pretty  much  the  only  item  I  really  liked.  The  girls  were 
some  of  them  grown  up,  not  quite  ill-looking,  and  all 
thought  to  be  or  thinking  themselves  "  clever  and 
learned  ;  "  yet  even  these,  strange  to  say,  in  the  great 
rarity  of  the  article  and  my  ardent  devotion  to  it,  were 
without  charm  to  me.  They  were  not  the  best  kind  of 
children  ;  none  of  them  I  used  to  think  quite  worthy  of 
such  a  father.  Martin  himself  had  a  kind  of  cheery  grace 
and  sociality  of  way  (though  much  afflicted  by  dyspepsia) 
a   clear-minded,    brotherly,    well-intentioned    man,    and 


EDWARD   IRVING.  93 

bating  a  certain  glimmer  of  vanity  which  always  looked 
through,  altogether  honest,  wholesome  as  Scotch  oat- 
meal. His  wife,  Avho  had  been  a  beauty,  perhaps  a  wit, 
and  was  now  grown  a  notable  manager  of  house  and  chil- 
dren, seemed  to  me  always  of  much  inferior  type,  visibly 
proud  as  well  as  vain,  of  a  snappish  rather  uncomfortable 
manner,  betokening,  even  in  her  kindness,  steady  egoism 
and  various  splenetic  qualities.  A  big  burly  brother  of 
hers,  a  clergyman  whom  I  have  seen,  a  logical  enough, 
sarcastic,  swashing  kind  of  man  in  his  sphere,  struck  me 
as  kneaded  out  of  precisely  the  same  clay.  All  Martin's 
children,  I  used  to  fancy,  had  this  bad  cross  in  the  birth  ; 
it  is  certain  that  none  of  them  came  to  much  good.  The 
eldest  Miss  Martin,  perhaps  near  twenty  by  this  time,  was 
of  bouncing,  frank,  gay  manners  and  talk,  studious  to  be 
amiable,  but  never  quite  satisfactory  on  the  side  6i  genu- 
ineness. Something  of  affected  you  feared  always  in 
these  fine  spirits  and  smiling  discourses,  to  which  how- 
ever you  answered  with  smiles.  She  was  very  ill-looking 
withal ;  a  skin  always  under  blotches  and  discolourment ; 
muddy  grey  eyes,  which  for  their  part  never  laughed  with 
the  other  features ;  pock-marked,  ill-shapen  triangular 
kind  of  face,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  long  chin  ;  decidedly 
unbeautiful  as  a  young  woman.  In  spite  of  all  which 
(having  perhaps  the  arena  much  to  herself)  she  had 
managed  to  charm  poor  Irving  for  the  time  being,  and  it 
was  understood  they  were  engaged,  which  unfortunately 
proved  to  be  the  fact.  Her  maternal  ill-qualities  came 
out  in  her  afterwards  as  a  bride  (an  engaged  young  lady), 
and  still  more  strongly  as  a  wife.     Poor  woman,  it  was 


94  EDWARD   IRVING. 

never  with  her  will ;  you  could  perceiv^e  she  had  always 
her  father's  strong  and  true  wish  to  be  good,  had  not  her 
difficulties  been  quite  too  strong.  But  it  was  and  is  very 
visible  to  me,  she  (unconsciously  for  much  the  greater 
part)  did  a  good  deal  aggravate  all  that  was  bad  in  Irving's 
"London  position,"  and  impeded  his  wise  profiting  by 
what  was  really  good  in  it.  Let  this  be  enough  said  on 
that  subject  for  the  present. 

L'ving's  preachings  as  a  licentiate  (or  probationer 
waiting  for  fixed  appointment)  were  always  interesting  to 
whoever  had  acquaintance  with  him,  especially  to  me  who 
was  his  intimate.  Mixed  with  but  little  of  self-comparison 
or  other  dangerous  ingredient,  indeed  with  loyal  recog- 
nition on  the  part  of  most  of  us,  and  without  any  grudg- 
ing or  hidden  envy,  we  enjoyed  the  broad  potency  of  his 
delineations,  exhortations,  and  free  flowing  eloquences, 
which  had  all  a  manly  and  original  turn  ;  and  then  after- 
wards there  was  sure  to  be  on  the  part  of  the  public  a 
great  deal  of  criticising  pro  and  contra,  which  also  had 
its  entertainment  for  us.  From  the  first  Irving  read  his 
discourses,  but  not  in  a  servile  manner  ;  of  attitude,  ges- 
ture, elocution  there  was  no  neglect.  His  voice  was  very 
fine;  melodious  depth,  strength,  clearness,  its  chief  char- 
acteristics. I  have  heard  more  pathetic  voices,  going 
more  direct  to  the  heart  both  in  the  way  of  indignation 
and  of  pity,  but  recollect  none  that  better  filled  the  ear. 
He  affected  the  Miltonic  or  old  English  Puritan  style,  and 
strove  visibly  to  imitate  it  more  and  more  till  almost  the 
end  of  his  career,  when  indeed  it  had  become  his  own, 
and  was  the  language  he  used  in  utmost  heat  of  business 


'  EDWARD   IRVING.  95 

for  expressing  his  meaning.  At  this  time  and  for  years 
afterwards  there  was  something  of  preconceived  intention 
visible  in  it,  in  fact  of  real  affectation,  as  there  could  not 
well  help  being.  To  his  example  also  I  suppose  I  owe 
something  of  my  own  poor  affectations  in  that  matter, 
which  are  now  more  or  less  visible  to  me,  much  repented 
of  or  not.  We  were  all  taught  at  that  time  by  Coleridge 
etc.  that  the  old  English  dramatists,  divines,  philosophers, 
judicious  Hooker,  Milton,  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  were  the 
genuine  exemplars,  which  I  also  tried  to  believe,  but 
never  rightly  could  as  a  ivhole.  The  young  must  learn 
to  speak  by  imitation  of  the  older  who  already  do  it,  or 
have  done  it.  The  ultimate  rule  is  :  learn  so  far  as  possi- 
ble to  be  intelligible  and  transparent — no  notice  taken  of 
your  style,  but  solely  of  what  you  express  by  it.  This  is 
your  clear  rule,  and  if  you  have  anything  which  is  not 
quite  trivial  to  express  to  your  contemporaries,  you  will 
find  such  rule  a  great  deal  more  difficult  to  follow  than 
many  people  think. 

On  the  whole,  poor  Irving's  style  was  sufficiently  sur- 
prising to  his  hidebound  public,  and  this  was  but  a  slight 
circumstance  to  the  novelty  of  the  matter  he  set  forth 
upon  them.  Actual  practice.  "  If  this  thing  is  true,  why 
not  do  it  ?  You  had  better  do  it.  There  will  be  nothing 
but  misery  and  ruin  in  not  doing  it."  That  was  the  gist 
and  continual  purport  of  all  his  discoursing,  to  the  aston- 
ishment and  deep  offence  of  hidebound  mankind.  There 
Avas  doubtless  something  of  rashness  in  the  young  Irving's 
way  of  preaching  ;  not  perhaps  quite  enough  of  pure, 
complete,    and  serious   conviction  (which  ought  to  have 


g6  EDWARD    IRVING. 

lain  silent  a  good  while  before  it  took  to  speaking).  In 
general  I  own  to  have  felt  that  there  was  present  a  certain 
inflation  or  spiritual  bombast  in  much  of  this,  a  trifle  of 
unconscious  playactorism  (highly  unconscious  but  not 
quite  absent)  which  had  been  unavoidable  to  the  brave 
young  prophet  and  reformer.  But  brave  he  was,  and 
bearing  full  upon  the  truth  if  not  yet  quite  attaining  it. 
And  as  to  the  offence  he  gave,  our  withers  were  unwrung. 
I  for  one  was  perhaps  rather  entertained  by  it,  and  grinned 
in  secret  to  think  of  the  hides  it  was  piercing !  Both  in 
Fife  and  over  in  Edinburgh,  I  have  known  the  offence 
very  rampant.  Once  in  Kirkcaldy  Kirk,  which  was  well 
filled  and  all  dead  silent  under  Irving's  grand  voice,  the 
door  of  a  pew  a  good  way  in  front  of  me  (ground  floor — 
right-hand  as  you  fronted  the  preacher),  banged  suddenly 
open,  and  there  bolted  out  of  it  a  middle-aged  or  elderly 
little  man  (an  insignificant  baker  by  position),  who  with 
long  swift  strides,  and  face  and  big  eyes  all  in  wrath, 
came  tramping  and  sounding  along  the  flags  close  past 
my  right  hand,  and  vanished  out  of  doors  with  a  slam  ; 
Irving  quite  victoriously  disregarding.  I  remember  the 
violently  angry  face  well  enough,  but  not  the  least  what 
the  offence  could  have  been.  A  kind  of  "  Who  are  you, 
sir,  that  dare  to  tutor  us  in  that  manner,  and  harrow  up 
our  orthodox  quiet  skin  with  your  novelties  ?  "  Probably 
*"  that  was  all.  In  Irving's  preaching  there  was  present  or 
prefigured  generous  opulence  of  ability  in  all  kinds  (ex- 
cept perhaps  the  very  highest  kind  not  even  prefigured), 
but  much  of  it  was  still  crude  ;  and  this  was  the  reception 
it  had  for  a  good  few  years  to  come ;  indeed  to  the  very 


EDWARD   IRVING.  97 

end  he  never  carried  all  the  world  along   with  him,   as 
some  have  done  with  far  fewer  qualities. 

In  vacation  time,  twice  over,  I  made  a  walking  tour 
with  him.  First  time  I  think  was  to  the  Trosachs,  and 
home  by  Loch  Lomond,  Greenock,  Glasgow,  etc.,  many 
parts  of  which  are  still  visible  to  me.  The  party  generally 
was  to  be  of  four ;  one  Piers,  who  was  Irving's  housemate 
or  even  landlord,  schoolmaster  of  Abbotshall,  i.e.,  of 
"  The  Links,"  at  the  southern  extra-burghal  part  of  Kirk- 
caldy, a  cheerful  scatterbrained  creature  who  went  ulti- 
mately as  preacher  or  professor  of  something  to  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  and  one  Brown  (James  Brown),  who  had 
succeeded  Irving  in  Haddington,  and  was  now  tutor  some- 
where. The  full  rally  was  not  to  be  till  Stirling  ;  even 
Piers  was  gone  ahead  ;  and  Irving  and  I  after  an  official 
dinner  with  the  burghal  dignitaries  of  Kirkcaldy,  who 
strove  to  be  pleasant,  set  out  together  one  grey  August 
evening  by  Forth  sands  towards  Torryburn.  Piers  was 
to  have  beds  ready  for  us  there,  and  we  cheerily  walked 
along  our  mostly  dark  and  intricate  twenty-two  miles. 
But  Piers  had  nothing  serviceably  ready  ;  we  could  not 
even  discover  Piers  at  that  dead  hour  (3  A.M.),  and  had  a 
good  deal  of  groping  and  adventuring  before  a  poor  inn 
opened  to  us  with  two  coarse  clean  beds  in  it,  in  which 
we  instantly  fell  asleep.  Piers  did  in  person  rouse  us  next 
morning  about  six,  but  we  concordantly  met  him  with 
mere  ha-ha's  !  and  inarticulate  hootings  of  satirical  rebuke, 
to  such  extent  that  Piers,  convicted  of  nothing  but  heroic 
punctuality,  flung  himself  out  into  the  rain  again  in  mo- 
mentary indignant  puff,  and  strode  away  for  Stirling,.. 
7 


98  EDWARD   IRVING. 

where  we  next  saw  him  after  four  or  five   hours.     I  re- 
member the  squalor  of  our  bedroom   in   the  dim   rainy 
light,  and  how  little  we  cared  for  it  in   our  opulence   of 
youth.     The   sight  of  giant   Irving  in  a  shortish  shirt  on 
the   sanded  floor,   drinking  patiently   a  large  tankard  of 
"  penny  whaup  *'  (the  smallest  beer  in  creation)  before  be- 
ginning to  dress,  is  still  present  to  me  as  comic.     Of  sub- 
lime or  tragic,  the  night  before   a   mysterious  great  red 
glow  is  much  more  memorable,  which  had  long  hung  be- 
fore us  in  the  murky  sky,  growing  gradually  brighter  and 
bigger,  till  at  last  we  found  it  must  be  Carron  Ironworks, 
on  the  other  side  of  Forth,  one  of  the  most  impressive 
sights.      Our  march  to  Stirling   was  under   pouring  rain 
for  most  part,  but  I  recollect  enjoying  the  romance  of  it ; 
Kincardine,  Culross  (Cu'ros),  Clackmannan,  here  they  are 
then  ;  what  a  wonder  to  be  here!     The  Links  of  Forth, 
the  Ochills,  Grampians,  Forth  itself,  Stirling,  lion-shaped, 
ahead,  like  a  lion  couchant  with  the  castle  for  his  crown  ; 
all  this  was  beautiful  in  spite  of  rain.     Welcome  too  was 
the  inside  of  Stirling,  with   its    fine   warm    inn    and    the 
excellent    refection    and    thorough    drying    and    refitting 
v/e    got    there.   Piers   and    Brown  looking  pleasantly  on. 
Strolling  and  sight-seeing,   (day  now  very  fine — Stirling 
all  washed)  till  we    marched    for  Doune   in  the    evening 
(Brig  of  Tcith,  "blue  and  arrowy  Teith,"  Irving  and  I 
took  that    byway  in   the    dusk) ;    breakfast  in    Callander 
next  morning,  and  get  to  Loch  Katrine   in  an  hour   or 
two    more.      I    have  not  been    in    that  region    again  till 
August  last  year,  four  days  of  magnificently  perfect  hos- 
pitality with  Stirling   of   Keir.      Almost    surprising  how 


EDWARD    IRVING.  99 

* 

mournful  it  was  to  "  look  on  this  picture  and  on  that"  at 
interval  of  fifty  years. 

Irving  was  in  a  sort  the  captain  of  our  expedition  : 
had  been  there  before,  could  recommend  everything  ; 
was  made,  unjustly  by  us,  responsible  for  everything. 
The  Trosachs  I  found  really  grand  and  impressive,  Loch 
Katrine  exquisitely  so  (my  first  taste  of  the  beautiful  in 
scenery).  Not  so,  any  of  us,  the  dirty  smoky  farm  hut  at 
the  entrance,  with  no  provision  in  it  but  bad  oatcakes  and 
unacceptable  whisky,  or  the  "  Mrs.  Stewart"  who  some- 
what royally  presided  over  it,  and  dispensed  these  dainties, 
expecting  to  be  flattered  like  an  independency  as  well  as 
paid  like  an  innkeeper.  Poor  Irving  could  not  help  it ; 
but  in  fine,  the  rains,  the  hardships,  the  ill  diet  was  begin- 
ning to  act  on  us  all,  and  I  could  perceive  that  we  were 
in  danger  of  splitting  into  two  parties.  Brown,  leader  of 
the  Opposition — myself  considerably  flattered  by  him, 
though  not  seduced  by  him  into  factious  courses,  only 
led  to  see  how  strong  poor  Piers  was  for  the  Government 
interest.  This  went  to  no  length,  never  bigger  than  a 
summer  cloud  or  the  incipiency  of  one.  But  Brown  in 
secret  would  never  quite  let  it  die  out  (a  jealous  kind  of 
man,  I  gradually  found  ;  had  been  much  commended  to 
us  by  Irving,  as  of  superior  intellect  and  honesty  ;  which 
qualities  I  likewise  found  in  him,  though  with  the  above 
abatement),  and  there  were  divisions  of  vote  in  the  walk- 
ing parliament,  two  against  two  ;  and  had  there  not  been 
at  this  point,  by  a  kind  of  outward  and  legitimate  reason, 
which  proved  very  sanatory  in  the  case,  an  actual  division 
of  routes,  the  folly  might  have  lasted  longer  and  become 


lOO  EDWARD    IRVING. 

audible  and  visible — which  it  never  did.  Sailing  up  Loch 
Katrine  in  top  or  unpicturesque  part,  Irving  and  Piers 
settled  with  us  that  only  we  two  should  go  across  Loch 
Lomond,  round  by  Tarbert,  Roseneath,  Greenock,  they 
meanwhile  making  direct  for  Paisley  country,  where  they 
had  business.  And  so  on  stepping  out  and  paying  our- 
boatmen  they  said  adieu,  and  at  once  struck  leftwards, 
we  going  straight  ahead  ;  rendezvous  to  be  at  Glasgow 
again  on  such  and  such  a  day.  (What  feeble  trash  is  all 
this.  .  .  .  Ah  me !  no  better  than  Irving's  penny 
whaup  with  the  gas  gone  out  of  it.  Stop  to-day,  October 
4,  1866.) 

The  heath  was  bare,  trackless,  sun  going  almost 
down.  Brown  and  I  (our  friends  soon  disappearing)  had 
an  interesting  march,  good  part  of  it  dark,  and  flavoured 
just  to  the  right  pitch  with  something  of  anxiety  and 
something  of  danger.  The  sinking  sun  threw  his  reflexes 
on  a  tame-looking  house  with  many  windows  some  way 
to  our  right,  the  "  Kharrison  of  Infersnaidt,"  an  ancient 
anti-Rob  Roy  establishment,  as  two  rough  Highland 
wayfarers  had  lately  informed  us.  Other  house  or  per- 
sons we  did  not  see,  but  made  for  the  shoulder  of  Benlo- 
mond  and  the  boatman's  hut,  partly,  I  think,  by  the 
stars.  Boatman  and  huthold  were  in  bed,  but  he,  with  a 
'ragged  little  sister  or  wife,  cheerfully  roused  themselves  ; 
cheerfully  and  for  most  part  in  silence,  rowed  us  across 
(under  the  spangled  vault  of  midnight ;  which,  with  the 
lake  waters  silent  as  if  in  deep  dream,  several  miles  broad 
here,  had  their  due  impression  on  us)  correctly  to  Tarbert, 
a  most  hospitable,  clean,  and  welcome  little    country  inn 


EDWARD   IRVING.  lOI 

(now  a  huge  "hotel"  I  hear,  worse  luck  to  it,  with  its 
nasty  "  Hotel  Company  limited").  On  awakening  next 
morning,  I  heard  from  below  the  sound  of  a  churn ; 
prophecy  of  new  genuine  butter,  and  even  of  ditto  rustic 
buttermilk. 

Brown  and  I  did  very  well  on  our  separate  branch  of 
pilgrimage ;  pleasant  walk  and  talk  down  to  the  west 
margin  of  the  loch  (incomparable  among  lakes  or  lochs 
yet  known  to  me)  ;  past  Smollett's  pillar  ;  emerge  on  the 
view  of  Greenock,  on  Helensburgh,  and  across  to  Rose- 
neath  Manse,  where  with  a  Rev.  Mr.  Story,  not  yet  quite 
inducted,  whose  "  Life  "  has  since  been  published,  who 
was  an  acquaintance  of  Brown's,  we  were  warmly  wel- 
comed and  well  entertained  for  a  couple  of  days.  vStory 
I  never  saw  again,  but  he,  acquainted  in  Haddington 
neighbourhood,  saw  some  time  after  incidentally  a  certain 
bright  figure,  to  whom  I  am  obliged  to  him  at  this  mo- 
ment for  speaking  favourably  of  me.  "Talent  plenty; 
fine  vein  of  satire  in  him  !  "  something  like  this.  I  sup- 
pose they  had  been  talking  of  Irving,  whom  both  of  them 
knew  and  liked  well.  Her,  probably  at  that  time  I  had 
still  never  seen,  but  she  told  me  long  afterwards. 

At  Greenock  I  first  saw  steamers  on  the  water  ;  queer 
little  dumpy  things  with  a  red  sail  to  each,  and  legible 
name,  "  Defiance,"  and  such  like,  bobbing  about  there, 
and  making  continual  passages  to  Glasgow  as  their  busi- 
ness. Not  till  about  two  years  later  (1819  if  I  mistake 
not),  did  Forth  see  a  steamer  ;  Forth's  first  was  far  bigger 
than  the  Greenock  ones,  and  called  itself  "  The  Tug," 
being  intended  for  towing  ships  in  those  narrow  waters, 


I02  EDWARD    IRVING. 

as  I  have  often  seen  it  doing ;  //  still,  and  no  rival  or  con- 
n-ener,  till  (in  1825)  Leith,  spurred  on  by  one  Bain,  a  kind 
of  scientific  half-pay  Master  R.N.,  got  up  a  large  finely 
.appointed    steamer,    or    pair    of   steamers,   for    London  ; 
which,  so  successful  were  they,  all  ports  then  set  to  imita- 
ting.    London  alone  still  held  back  for  a  good  few  years  ; 
London  was  notably  shy  of  the  steam  ship,  great  as  are 
its  doings  now  in  that  line.      An  old  friend  of  mine,  the 
late  Mr.  Strachey,"  has  told  me  that  in  his  school  days  he 
at    one    time — early  in   the  Nineties   I  should  guess,  say 
1793 — used  to  see,  in  crossing  Westminster  Bridge,  a  little 
model  steamship  paddling  to  and  fro  between  him  and 
Blackfriars  Bridge,  with  steam  funnel,  paddle  wheels,  and 
the   other  outfit,  exhibiting  and  recommending   itself  to 
London  and  whatever  scientific  or  other  spirit  of  marine 
adventure  London  might  have.     London  entirely  dead  to 
the    phenomenon — which    had    to    duck   under    and  dive 
across   the  Atlantic  before    London  saw   it  again,   when 
a    new    generation     had    risen.       The    real    inventor   of 
steamships,  I  have  learned  credibly  elsewhere,  the  maker 
and  proprietor  of  that  fruitless  model  on  the  Thames,  was 
Mr.    Miller,  Laird  of  Dalswinton  in  Dumfriesshire  (Poet 
Burns'  landlord),  who  spent  his  life  and  his  estate  in  that 
adventure,  and  is  not  now  to  be  heard  of  in  those  parts  ; 
having  had   to  sell    Dalswinton   and  die    quasi-bankrupt 
(and  I  should  think  broken-hearted)  after  that  completing 
of  his  painful  invention  and  finding  London  and  mankind 

'  Late  Charles  BuUer's  uncle.  Somersesthire  gentleman,  ex-Indian,  died 
ill  1831,  an  examiner  in  the  India  House  ;  colleague  of  John  S.  Mill  and  his 
father  there. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  IO3 

dead  to  it.  Miller's  assistant  and  work-hand  for  many- 
years  was  John  Bell,  a  joiner  in  the  neighbouring  village  of 
Thornhill.  Miller  being  ruined,  Bell  was  out  of  work  and 
connection  :  emigrated  to  New  York,  and  there  speaking 
much  of  his  old  master,  and  glorious  unheeded  invention 
well  known  to  Bell  in  all  its  outlines  or  details,  at  length 
found  one  Fulton  to  listen  to  him  ;  and  by  "  Fulton  and 
Bell"  (about  1809),  an  actual  packet  steamer  was  got 
launched,  and,  lucratively  plying  on  the  Hudson  River, 
became  the  miracle  of  Yankee-land,  and  gradually  of  all 
lands.  These  I  believe  are  essentially  the  facts.  Old 
Robert  M'Queen  of  Thornhill,  Strachey  of  the  India 
House,  and  many  other  bits  of  good  testimony  and  indi- 
cation, once  far  apart,  curiously  coalescing  and  corre- 
sponding for  me.  And  as,  possibly  enough,  the  story  is 
not  now  known  in  whole  to  anybody  but  myself,  it  may 
go  in  here  as  a  digression — a  propos  of  those  brisk  little 
Greenock  steamers  which  I  first  saw,  and  still  so  vividly 
remember;  little  "Defiance,"  etc.,  saucily  bounding 
about  with  their  red  sails  in  the  sun,  on  this  my  tour  with 
Irving. 

Those  old  three  days  at  Roseneath  are  all  very  vivid 
to  me,  and  marked  in  white.  The  quiet  blue  mountain 
masses,  giant  Cobler  overhanging,  bright  seas,  bright 
skies,  Roseneath  new  mansion  (still  unfinished  and  stand- 
ing as  it  did),  the  grand  old  oaks,  and  a  certain  handfast, 
middle-aged,  practical  and  most  polite  "  Mr.  Campbell  " 
(the  Argyll  factor  there)  and  his  two  sisters,  excellent  lean 
old  ladies,  with  their  wild  Highland  accent,  wiredrawn 
but  genuine  good  manners  and  good  principles,  and  not 


104  EDWARD   IRVING. 

least  their  astonishment,  and  shrill  interjections  at  once 
of  love  and  fear,  over  the  talk  they  contrived  to  get  out 
of  me  one  evening  and  perhaps  another  when  we  went 
across  to  tea  ;  all  this  is  still  pretty  to  me  to  remember. 
They  are  all  dead,  the  good  soulfe — Campbell  himself,  the 
Duke  told  me,  died  only  lately,  very  old — but  they  were 
to  my  rustic  eyes  of  a  superior,  richly  furnished  stratum 
of  society  ;  and  the  thought  that  I  too  might  perhaps  be 
"  one  and  somewhat  "  {^Eiji  und  Etivas)  among  my  fellow 
creatures  by  and  by,  was  secretly  very  welcome  at  their 
hands.  VVe  rejoined  Irving  and  Piers  at  Glasgow  ;  I  re- 
member our  glad  embarkation  towards  Paisley  by  canal 
trackboat  ;  visit  preappointed  for  us  by  Irving,  in  a  good 
old  lady's  house,  whose  son  was  Irving's  boarder ;  the 
dusty,  sunny  Glasgow  evening ;  and  my  friend's  joy  to 
see  Brown  and  me.  Irving  was  very  good  and  jocund- 
hearted  :  most  blithe  his  good  old  lady,  whom  I  had  seen 
at  Kirkcaldy  before.  We  had  a  pleasant  day  or  two  in 
those  neighbourhoods  ;  the  picturesque,  the  comic,  and 
the  genially  common  all  prettily  combining  ;  particulars 
now  much  forgotten.  Piers  went  to  eastward,  Dunse,  his 
native  country  ;  "  born  i'  Dunse,"  equal  in  sound  to  born 
a  dunce,  as  Irving's  laugh  would  sometimes  remind  him  ; 
"opposition  party"  (except  it  were  in  the  secret  of 
Brown's  jealous  heart)  there  was  now  none  ;  Irving  in 
truth  was  the  natural  king  among  us,  and  his  qualities  of 
captaincy  in  such  a  matter  were  indisputable. 

Brown,  he,  and  I  went  by  the  Falls  of  Clyde;  I  do 
jiot  recollect  the  rest  of  our  route,  except  that  at  New 
Lanark,  a  green  silent  valley,  with  cotton  works  turned 


liw— ■ 


EDWARD   IRVING.  I05 

by  Clyde  waters,  we  called  to  see  Robert  Owen,  the  then 
incipient  arch-gomeril,  "  model  school,"  and  thought  it 
(and  him,  whom  after  all  we  did  not  see,  and  knew  only  by 
his  pamphlets  and  it)  a  thing  of  wind  not  worth  consider- 
ing farther  ;  and  that  after  sight  of  the  Falls,  which  prob- 
ably was  next  day,  Irving  came  out  as  captain  in  a  fine 
new  phase.  The  Falls  were  very  grand  and  stormful — 
nothing  to  say  against  the  Falls  ;  but  at  the  last  of  them, 
or  possibly  at  Bothwell  Banks  farther  on,  a  woman  who 
officiated  as  guide  and  cicerone,  most  superfluous,  unwill- 
ing too,  but  firmly  persistent  in  her  purpose,  happened 
to  be  in  her  worst  humour  ;  did  nothing  but  snap  and 
snarl,  and  being  answered  by  bits  of  quiz,  towered  at 
length  into  foam.  She  intimated  she  would  bring  some- 
body who  would  ask  us  how  we  could  so  treat  an  unpro- 
tected female,  and  vanished  to  seek  the  champion  or 
champions.  As  our  business  was  done,  and  the  woman 
paid  too,  I  own  (with  shame  if  needed)  my  thought  would 
have  been  to  march  with  decent  activity  on  our  way,  not 
looking  back  unless  summoned  to  do  it,  and  prudently 
evading  discrepant  circles  of  that  sort.  Not  so  Irving, 
who  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  breadth,  cud- 
gel in  hand,  and  stood  there,  flanked  by  Brown  and  me, 
waiting  the  issue. 

Issue  was,  a  thickish  kind  of  man,  seemingly  the 
woman's  husband,  a  little  older  than  any  of  us,  stept  out 
with  her,  calmly  enough  surveying,  and  at  a  respectful 
distance  ;  asked  if  we  would  buy  apples  ?  Upon  which 
with  negatory  grin  we  did  march.  I  recollect  too  that 
we  visited  lead  hills  and  descended  into  the  mines ;  that 


I05  EDWARD   IRVING. 

Irving  prior  to  Annan  must  have  struck  away  from  us  at 
some  point.  Brown  and  I,  on  arriving  at  Mainhill,  found 
my  dear  good  mother  in  the  saddest  state  ;  dregs  of  a  bad 
fever  hanging  on  her  ;  my  profound  sorrow  at  which 
seemed  to  be  a  surprise  to  Brown,  according  to  his  let- 
ters afterwards.  With  Brown,  for  a  year  or  two  ensuing, 
I  continued  to  have  some  not  unpleasant  correspondence  ; 
a  conscientious,  accurate,  clear-sighted,  but  rather  narrow 
and  unfruitful  man,  at  present  tutor  to  some  Lockhart  of 
Lee,  and  wintering  in  Edinburgh.  Went  afterwards  to 
India  as  Presbyterian  clergyman  somewhere,  and  shrank 
gradually,  we  heard,  into  complete  aridity,  phrenology, 
etc.,  etc.,  and  before  long  died  there.  He  had,  after  Ir- 
ving, been  my  dear  little  Jeannie's  teacher  and  tutor  ; 
she  never  had  but  these  two,  and  the  name  of  her,  like  a 
bright  object  far  above  me  like  a  star,  occasionally  came 
up  between  them  on  that  journey  ;  I  dare  say  at  other 
times.  She  retained  a  child's  regard  for  James  Brown, 
and  in  this  house  he  was  always  a  memorable  object. 

My  second  tour  with  Irving  had  nothing  of  circuit  in 
it :  a  mere  walk  homeward  through  the  Peebles-Moffat 
moor  country,  and  is  not  worth  going  into  in  any  detail. 
The  region  was  without  roads,  often  without  foot-tracks, 
had  no  vestige  of  an  inn,  so  that  there  was  a  kind  of 
knight-errantry  in  threading  your  way  through  it ;  not  to 
mention  the  romance  that  naturally  lay  in  its  Ettrick  and 
Yarrow,  and  old  melodious  songs  and  traditions.  We 
walked  up  Meggat  Water  to  beyond  the  sources,  emerged 
into  Yarrow,  not  far  above  St.  Mary's  Loch  ;  a  charming 
secluded  shepherd  country,  with  excellent  shepherd  popu- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  lO/ 

lation — nowhere  setting  up  to  be  picturesque,  but  every- 
where honest,  comely,  well  done- to,  peaceable  and  useful. 
Nor  anywhere  without  its  solidly  characteristic  features, 
hills,  mountains,  clear  rushing  streams,  cosy  nooks  and 
homesteads,  all  of  fine  rustic  type  ;  and  presented  to  you 
in  natiird,  not  as  in  a  Drury  Lane  with  stage-lights  and 
for  a  purpose  ;  the  vast  and  yet  not  savage  solitude  as  an 
impressive  item,  long  miles  from  farm  to  farm,  or  even 
from  one  shepherd's  cottage  to  another.  No  company  to 
you  but  the  rustle  of  the  grass  underfoot,  the  tinkling  of 
the  brook,  or  the  voices  of  innocent  primaeval  things.  I 
repeatedly  walked  through  that  country  up  to  Edinburgh 
and  down  by  myself  in  subsequent  years,  and  nowhere 
remember  such  affectionate,  sad,  and  thoughtful,  and  in 
fact,  interesting  and  salutary  journeys.  I  have  had  days 
clear  as  Italy  (as  in  this  Irving  case),  days  moist  and  drip- 
ping, overhung  with  the  infinite  of  silent  grey — and  per- 
haps the  latter  were  the  preferable  in  certain  moods.  You 
had  the  world  and  its  waste  imbroglios  of  joy  and  woe,  of 
light  and  darkness,  to  yourself  alone.  You  could  strip 
barefoot  if  it  suited  better,  carry  shoes  and  socks  over 
shoulder,  hung  on  your  stick  ;  clean  shirt  and  comb  were 
in  your  pocket  ;  omnia  mea  meciim  porto.  You  lodged 
with  shepherds  who  had  clean  solid  cottages  ;  whole- 
some eggs,  milk,  oatbread,  porridge,  clean  blankets  to 
their  beds,  and  a  great  deal  of  human  sense  and  unadul- 
terated natural  politeness.  Canty,  shrewd  and  witty  fel- 
lows, when  you  set  them  talking  ;  knew  from  their  hill 
tops  every  bit  of  country  between  Forth  and  Solway,  and 
all  the  shepherd  inhabitants   within  fifty  miles,   being  a 


lOS  EDWARD    IRVING. 

kind  of  confraternity  of  shepherds  from  father  to  son. 
No  sort  of  peasant  labourers  I  have  ever  come  across 
seemed  to  me  so  happily  situated,  morally  and  physically 
well-developed,  and  deserving  to  be  happy,  as  those  shep- 
herds of  the  Cheviots.  0  fortimatos  nimiiim  !  But  per- 
haps it  is  all  altered  not  a  little  now,  as  I  sure  enough  am 
who  speak  of  it  ! 

Irving's  course  and  mine  was  from  bonny  Yarrow  on- 
wards by  Loch  Skene  and  the  "  Grey  Mare's  Tail  "  (finest 
of  all  cataracts,  lonesome,  simple,  grand,  that  are  now  in 
my  memory)  down  into  Moffat  dale  where  we  lodged  in 
a  shepherd's  cottage.  Caplegill,  old  Walter  Welsh's  farm, 
must  have  been  near,  though  I  knew  not  of  it  then. 
From  the  shepherd  people  came  good  talk ;  Irving  skilful 
to  elicit  topography  ;  Poet  Hogg  (who  was  then  a  celeb- 
rity), "  Shirra  Scott  "  (Sir  Walter,  Sheriff  of  Selkirkshire, 
whose  borders  we  had  just  emerged  from)  ;  then  gradu- 
ally stores  of  local  anecdote,  personal  history,  etc.  These 
good  people  never  once  asked  us  whence,  whither,  or  what 
are  you  ?  but  waited  till  perhaps  it  voluntarily  came,  as 
generally  chanced.  Moffat  dale  with  its  green  holms  and 
hill  ranges,  "  Correyran  Saddle-yoke,"  (actual  quasi-sad- 
dle,  you  can  sit  astride  anywhere,  and  a  stone  dropped 
from  either  hand  will  roll  and  bound  a  mile),  with  its 
pleasant  groves  and  farmsteads,  voiceful  limpid  waters 
rushing  fast/(?r  Annan,  all  was  very  beautiful  to  us  ;  but 
what  I  most  remember  is  Irvine's  arrival  at  Mainhill  with 
me  to  tea,  and  how  between  my  father  and  him  there  was 
such  a  mutual  recognition.  My  father  had  seen  Loch 
Skene,  the  Grey  Mare's  Tail,  etc.,  in  his  youth,  and  now 


EDWARD   IRVING.  IO9 

gave  in  few  words  such  a  picture  of  it,  forty  years  after 
sight,  as  charmed  and  astonished  Irving  ;  who  on  his  side 
was  equally  unlike  a  common  man,  definitely  true,  intelli- 
gent, frankly  courteous ,  faithful  in  whatever  he  spoke 
about.  My  father  and  he  saw  one  another  (on  similar 
occasions)  twice  or  thrice  again,  always  with  increasing 
esteem  ;  and  I  rather  think  it  was  from  Irving  on  this  par- 
ticular occasion  that  I  was  first  led  to  compare  my  father 
with  other  men,  and  see  how  immensely  superior  he,  al- 
together unconsciously,  was.  No  intellect  equal  to  his, 
in  certain  important  respects,  have  I  ever  met  with  in  the 
world.  Of  my  mother,  Irving  never  made  any  reading 
for  himself,  or  could  well  have  made,  but  only  through 
me,  and  that  too  he  believed  in  and  loved  well  ;  generally 
all  recognising  Irving. 

The  Kirkcaldy  population  were  a  pleasant  honest 
kind  of  fellow  mortals  ;  something  of  quietly  fruitful,  of 
good  old  Scotch  in  their  works  and  ways  ;  more  vernacu- 
lar, peaceable,  fixed,  and  almost  genial  in  their  mode  of 
life  than  I  had  been  used  to  in  the  Border  home-land. 
Fife  generally  we  liked,  those  ancient  little  burghs  and 
sea  villages,  with  their  poor  little  havens,  salt  pans,  and 
weatherbeaten  bits  of  Cyclopean  breakwaters  and  rude 
innocent  machineries,  are  still  kindly  to  me  to  think  of. 
Kirkcaldy  itself  had  many  looms,  had  Baltic  trade,  had 
whale-fishery,  etc.,  and  was  a  solidly  diligent,  yet  by  no 
means  a  panting,  puffing,  or  in  any  way  gambling  "  Lang 
Town."  The  flaxmill-machinery,  I  remember,  was  turned 
mainly  by  tvind ;  and  curious  blue  painted  wheels,  with 
oblique  vans  (how  working  I  never  saw)  rose  from  many 


no  EDWARD    IRVING.    , 

roofs  for  that  end.     We  all,  I  in  particular,  always  rather 
liked  the  people,  though  from  the  distance  chiefly,  cha- 
grined and  discouraged  by  the  sad  trade  one  had  !    Some 
hospitable  human  firesides  I  found,  and  these  were  at  in- 
tervals a  fine  little  element,  but  in  general  we  were  but 
onlookers  (the  one  real  society  our  books  and  our  few 
selves).     Not  even  with  the  bright  "  young  ladies  "  (which 
was  a  sad  feature)  were  we  on  speaking  terms.     By  far 
the   cleverest    and    brightest,    however,   an   ex-pupil    of 
Irving's  and  genealogically  and  otherwise  (being  poorish, 
proud,  and  well-bred)  a  kind  of  alien  in  the  place,  I  did 
at  last  make  some  acquaintance  with  (at  Irving's  first,  I 
think,  though  she  rarely  came  thither)  ;  some  acquaint- 
ance, and  it  might  easily  have  been  more,  had  she  and  her 
aunt   and  our  economics  and  other  circumstances  liked. 
She  was  of  the  fair-complexioned,  softly  elegant,  softly 
grave,  witty  and  comely  type,  and  had  a  good  deal  of 
gracefulness,  intelligence,  and  other  talent.     Irving  too, 
it  was  sometimes  thought,   found  her  very  interesting, 
could  the  Miss  Martin   bonds  have  allowed,  which  they 
never  would.     To  me  who  had  only  known  her  for  a  few 
months,  and  who  within  twelve  or  fifteen  months  saw  the 
last  of  her,  she  continued  for  perhaps  some  three  years  a 
figure  hanging  more   or  less  in   my  fancy  on   the  usual 
romantic,  or  latterly  quite  elegiac  and  silent  terms,  and 
to  this  day  there  is  in  me  a  goodwill  to  her,  a  candid  and 
gentle  pity  for  her,   if  needed    at  all.      She  was  of  the 
Aberdeenshire  Gordons,  a  far-ofT  Huntly  I  doubt  not  ; 
"Margaret   Gordon,"   born    I  think    in  New   Brunswick, 
where  her  father,  probably  in  some  ofiBcial  post,  had  died 


EDWARD   IRVING.  Ill 

young  and  poor.  Her  accent  was  prettily  English  and 
her  voice  very  fine.  An  aunt  (widow  in  Fife,  childless, 
with  limited  resources,  but  of  frugal  cultivated  turn,  a 
lean,  proud  elderly  dame,  once  a  "Miss  Gordon  "  her- 
self, sang  Scotch  songs  beautifully,  and  talked  shrewd 
Aberdeenish  in  accent  and  otherwise),  had  adopted  her 
and  brought  her  hither  over  seas  ;  and  here  as  Irving's 
ex-pupil  she  now,  cheery  though  with  dim  outlooks,  was. 
Irving  saw  her  again  in  Glasgow  one  summer,  touring, 
etc.,  he  himself  accompanying  joyfully,  not  joining  (so  I 
understood  it)  the  retinue  of  suitors  or  potential  suitors, 
rather  perhaps  indicating  gently  "  No,  I  must  not"  for 
the  last  time.  A  year  or  so  after  we  heard  the  fair  Mar- 
garet had  married  some  rich  insignificant  Aberdeen  Mr. 
Something,  who  afterwards  got  into  Parliament,  thence 
out  to  "Nova  Scotia"  (or-  so)  as  "Governor,"  and  I 
heard  of  her  no  more,  except  that  lately  she  was  still 
living  about  Aberdeen,  childless,  as  the  Dowager  Lady, 
her  Mr.  Something  having  got  knighted  before  dying. 
Poor  Margaret  !  Speak  to  her  since  the  "  good-bye 
then  "  at  Kirkcaldy  in  1819  I  never  did  or  could.  I  saw 
her,  recognisably  to  me,  here  in  her  London  time,  twice 
(1840  or  so),  once  with  her  maid  in  Piccadilly,  prome- 
nading, little  altered  ;  a  second  time,  that  same  year  or 
next,  on  horseback  both  of  us,  and  meeting  in  the  gate 
of  Hyde  Park,  when  her  eyes  (but  that  was  all)  said  to 
me  almost  touchingly,  "  Yes,  yes,  that  is  you."  Enough 
of  that  old  matter,  which  but  half  concerns  Irving  and  is 
now  quite  extinct. 

In    the  space  of  two  years  we  had  all  got  tired    of 


112  EDWARD   IRVING. 

schoolmastering  and  its  mean  contradictions  and  poor 
results  :  Irving  and  I  quite  resolute  to  give  it  up  for 
good  ;  the  headlong  Piers  disinclined  for  it  on  the  then 
terms  longer,  and  in  the  end  of  1818  we  all  three  went 
away;  Irving  and  I  to  Edinburgh,  Piers  to  his  own  east 
country,  whom  I  never  saw  again  with  eyes,  poor  good 
rattling  soul.  Irving's  outlooks  in  Edinburgh  were  not 
of  the  best,  considerably  checkered  with  dubiety,  oppo- 
sition, and  even  flat  disfavour  in  some  quarters ;  but  at 
least  they  were  far  superior  to  mine,  and  indeed,  I  was 
beginning  my  four  or  five  most  miserable  dark,  sick,  and 
heavy-laden  years  ;  Irving,  after  some  staggerings  aback, 
his  seven  or  eight  healthiest  and  brightest.  He  had  as 
one  item  several  good  hundreds  of  money  to  wait  upon. 
My  peadiuvi  I  don't  recollect,  but  it  could  not  have  ex- 
ceeded 100/.  I  was  without  friends,  experience,  or  con- 
nection in  the  sphere  of  human  business,  was  of  shy 
humour,  proud  enough  and  to  spare,  and  had  begun  my 
long  curriculum  of  dyspepsia  which  has  never  ended 
since  ! 

Irving  lived  in  Bristo  Street,  more  expensive  rooms 
than  mine,  used  to  give  breakfasts  to  intellectualities  he 
fell  in  with,  I  often  a  guest  with  them.  They  were  but 
stupid  intellectualities,  and  the  talk  I  got  into  there  did 
not  please  me  even  then  ;  though  it  was  well  enough  re- 
ceived. A  visible  gloom  occasionally  hung  over  Irving, 
his  old  strong  sunshine  only  getting  out  from  time  to 
time.  He  gave  lessons  in  mathematics,  once  for  a  while 
to  Captain  Basil  Hall,  who  had  a  kind  of  thin  celebrity 
then,  and  did  not  seem  to  love  too  well  that  small  lion  or 


EDWARD   IRVING.  II 3 

his  ways  with  him.  Small  lion  came  to  propose  for  me  at 
one  stage  ;  wished  me  to  go  out  with  him  "  to  Dunglas  " 
and  there  do  "  lunars  "  in  his  name,  he  looking  on  and 
learning  of  me  what  would  come  of  its  own  will.  "  Lu- 
nars "  meanwhile  were  to  go  to  the  Admiralty,  testifying 
there  what  a  careful  studious  Captain  he  was,  and  help  to 
get  him  promotion,  so  the  little  wretch  smilingly  told  me. 
I  remember  the  figure  of  him  in  my  dim  lodging  as  a 
gay,  crackling,  sniggering  spectre,  one  dusk,  and  en- 
deavouring to  seduce  my  affability  in  lieu  of  liberal  wages 
into  this  adventure.  Wages,  I  think,  were  to  be  small- 
ish ("so  poor  are  we"),  but  then  the  great  Playfair  is 
coming  on  visit.  "  You  will  see  Professor  Playfair."  I 
had  not  the  least  notion  of  such  an  enterprise  on  these 
shining  terms,  and  Captain  Basil  with  his  great  Playfair  in 
posse  vanished  for  me  into  the  shades  of  dusk  for  good. 
I  don't  think  Irving  ever  had  any  other  pupil  but  this 
Basil  for  perhaps  a  three  months.  I  had  not  even  Basil, 
though  private  teaching,  to  me  the  poorer,  was  much 
the  more  desirable  if  it  would  please  to  come  ;  which  it 
generally  would  not  in  the  least.  I  was  timorously  aim- 
ing towards  "literature  "  too;  thought  in  audacious  mo- 
ments I  might  perhaps  earn  some  trifle  that  way  by  honest 
labour  to  help  my  finance  ;  but  in  that  too  I  was  painfully 
sceptical  (talent  and  opportunity  alike  doubtful,  alike  in- 
credible, to  me  poor  downtrodden  soul)  and  in  fact  there 
came  little  enough  of  produce  or  finance  to  me  from 
that  source,  and  for  the  first  years  absolutely  none  in  spite 
of  my  diligent  and  desperate  efforts  which  are  sad  to  me 

to  think  of  even  now.     Acfi  /adores ;  yes,  but  of  such  a 
8 


114  EDWARD   IRVING. 

futile,  dismal  lonely,  dim  and  chaotic  kind,  in  a  scene  all 
ghastly-chaos  to  one,  sad,  dim  and  ugly  as  the  shores  of 
Styx  and  Phlegethon,  as  a  nightmare-dream,  become  real ! 
No  more  of  that ;  it  did  not  conquer  me,  or  quite  kill 
me,  thank  God.  Irving  thought  of  nothing  as  ultimate, 
but  a  clerical  career,  obstacles  once  overcome;  in  the 
meanwhile  we  heard  of  robust  temporary  projects. 
"Tour  to  Switzerland,"  glaciers,  Geneva,  "Lake  of 
Thun,"  very  grand  to  think  of,  was  one  of  them  ;  none  of 
which  took  effect. 

I  forget  how  long  it  was  till  the  then  famed  Dr.  Chal- 
mers, fallen  in  want  of  an  assistant,  cast  his  eye  on  Irving. 
I  think  it  was  in  the  summer  following  our  advent  to 
Edinburgh.  I  heard  duly  about  it,  how  Rev.  Andrew 
Thomson,  famous  mallais  of  theology  in  that  time,  had 
mentioned  Irving's  name,  had  engaged  to  get  Chalmers  a 
hearing  of  him  in  his  (Andrew's)  church  ;  how  Chalmers 
heard  incognito,  and  there  ensued  negotiation.  Once  I 
recollect  transiently  seeing  the  famed  Andrew  on  occasion 
of  it  (something  Irving  had  forgotten  with  him,  and  wished 
me  to  call  for)  and  what  a  lean-minded,  iracund,  ignorant 
kind  of  man  Andrew  seemed  to  me  ;  also  much  more 
vividly,  in  autumn  following,  one  fine  airy  October  day  in 
Annandale,  Irving  on  foot  on  his  way  to  Glasgow  for  a 
month  of  actual  trial.  Had  come  by  Mainhill,  and  picked 
me  up  to  walk  with  him  seven  or  eight  miles  farther  into 
Dryfe  Water  (i.e.  valley  watered  by  clear  swift  Dryfe, 
quasi  Drive,  so  impetuous  and  swift  is  it),  where  was  a  cer- 
tain witty  comrade  of  ours,  one  Frank  Dickson,  preacher 
at  once  and  farmer  (only  son  and  heir  of  his  father  who 


EDWARD    IRVING.  II  5 

had  died  in  that  latter  capacity).  We  found  Frank  I  con- 
clude, though  the  whole  is  now  dim  to  me,  till  we  arrived 
all  three  (Frank  and  I  to  set  Irving  on  his  road  and  bid 
him  good  speed)  on  the  top  of  a  hill  commanding  all  upper 
Annandale,  and  the  grand  mass  of  Moffat  hills,  where 
we  paused  thoughtful  a  few  moments.  The  blue  sky  was 
beautifully  spotted  with  white  clouds,  which  and  their 
shadows  on  the  wide  landscape,  the  wind  was  beautifully 
chasing.  Like  life,  I  said  with  a  kind  of  emotion,  on 
Avhich  Irving  silently  pressed  my  arm  with  the  hand  near 
it  or  perhaps  on  it,  and  a  moment  after,  with  no  word  but 
his  "farewell"  and  ours,  strode  swiftly  away.  A  mail 
coach  would  find  him  at  Moffat  that  same  evening  (after 
his  walk  of  about  thirty  miles),  and  carry  him  to  Glasgow 
to  sleep.  And  the  curtains  sink  again  on  Frank  and  me 
at  this  time. 

Frank  was  a  notable  kind  of  man,  and  one  of  the 
memorabilities,  to  Irving  as  Avell  as  me  ;  a  most  quizzing, 
merry,  entertaining,  guileless,  and  unmalicious  man  ;  with 
very  considerable  logic,  reading,  contemptuous  observa- 
tion and  intelligence,  much  real  tenderness  too,  when  not 
obstructed,  and  a  mournful  true  affection  especially  for 
the  friends  he  had  lost  by  death  !  No  mean  impediment 
there  any  more  (that  was  it),  for  Frank  was  very  sensitive, 
easily  moved  to  something  of  envy,  and  as  if  surprised 
when  contempt  was  not  possible  ;  easy  banter  was  what 
he  habitually  dwelt  in  ;  for  the  rest  an  honourable,  bright, 
amiable  man  ;  alas,  and  his  end  was  very  tragic  !  I  have 
hardly  seen  a  man  with  more  opulence  of  conversation, 
wit,    fantastic   bantering,    ingenuity,    and    genial   human 


Il6  EDWARD    IRVING. 

sense  of  the  ridiculous  in  men  and  things.  Charles 
Buller,  perhaps,  but  he  was  of  far  more  refined,  deli- 
cately managed,  and  less  copious  tone  ;  finer  by  nature, 
I  should  say,  as  well  as  by  culture,  and  had  nothing  of 
the  fine  Annandale  Rabelais  turn  which  had  grown  up, 
partly  of  will  and  at  length  by  industry  as  well,  in  poor 
Frank  Dickson  in  the  valley  of  Dryfe  amid  his  little  stock 
of  books  and  rustic  phenomena.  A  slightly  built  man, 
nimble-looking  and  yet  lazy-looking,  our  Annandale 
Rabelais;  thin,  neatly  expressive  aquiline  face,  grey 
genially  laughing  eyes,  something  sternly  serious  and 
resolute  in  the  squarish  fine  brow,  nose  specially  aqui- 
line, thin  and  rather  small.  I  well  remember  the  play  of 
point  and  nostrils  there,  while  his  wild  home-grown  Gar- 
gantuisms  went  on.  He  rocked  rather,  and  negligently 
wriggled  in  walking  or  standing,  something  slightly 
twisted  in  the  spine,  I  think  ;  but  he  made  so  much 
small  involuntary  tossing  and  gesticulating  while  he 
spoke  or  listened,  you  never  noticed  the  twist.  What 
a  childlike  and  yet  half  imp-like  volume  of  laughter  lay 
in  Frank  ;  how  he  would  fling  back  his  fine  head,  left 
cheek  up,  not  himself  laughing  much  or  loud  even,  but 
showing  you  such  continents  of  inward  gleesome  mirth 
and  victorious  mockery  of  the  dear  stupid  ones  who  had 
crossed  his  sphere  of  observation.  A  wild  roll  of  sombre 
eloquence  lay  in  him  too,  and  I  have  seen  in  his  sermons 
sometimes  that  brow  and  aquiline  face  grow  dark,  sad, 
and  thunderous  like  the  eagle  of  Jove.  I  always  liked 
poor  Frank,  and  he  me  heartily.  After  having  tried  to 
banter  me  down  and  recognised  the  mistake,  which  he 


EDWARD   IRVING.  117 

loyally  did  for  himself  and  never  repeated,  we  had  much 
pleasant  talk  together  first  and  last. 

His  end  was  very  tragic,  like  that  of  a  sensitive  gifted 
man  too  much  based  on  laughter.  Having  no  good  pros- 
pect of  kirk  promotion  in  Scotland  (I  think  his  Edinburgh 
resource  had  been  mainly  that  of  teaching  under  Mathe- 
matical Nichol  for  certain  hours  daily),  he  perhaps  about 
a  year  after  Irving  went  to  Glasgow  had  accepted  some 
offer  to  be  Presbyterian  chaplain  and  preacher  to  the 
Scotch  in  Bermuda,  and  lifted  anchor  thither  with  many 
regrets  and  good  wishes  from  us  all.  I  did  not  corre- 
spond with  him  there,  my  own  mood  and  posture  being  so 
dreary  and  empty.  But  before  Irving  left  Glasgow,  news 
came  to  me  (from  Irving  I  believe)  that  Frank,  struck 
quite  miserable  and  lame  of  heart  and  nerves  by  dyspep- 
sia and  dispiritment,  was  home  again,  or  on  his  way  home 
to  Dryfesdale,  there  to  lie  useless,  Irving  recommending 
me  to  do  for  him  what  kindness  I  could,  and  not  remem- 
ber that  he  used  to  disbelieve  and  be  ignorantly  cruel  in 
my  own  dyspeptic  tribulations.  This  I  did  not  fail  of, 
nor  was  it  burdensome,  but  otherwise,  while  near  him  in 
Annandale. 

Frank  was  far  more  wretched  than  I  had  been  ;  sunk 
in  spiritual  dubieties  too,  which  I  by  that  time  was  get- 
ting rid  of.  He  had  brought  three  young  Bermuda  gen- 
tlemen home  with  him  as  pupils  (had  been  much  a  favour- 
ite in  society  there).  With  these  in  his  rough  farm-house, 
Belkat  hill,*  he  settled  himself  to  live.  Farm  was  his,  but 
in  the  hands  of  a  rough-spun  sister  and  her  ploughing  hus- 

'  Bell  Top  Hill,  near  Hook,  head  part  of  the  pleasant  vale  of  Dryfe. 


llS  EDWARD    IRVING. 

band,  who  perhaps  was  not  over  glad  to  see  Frank  return, 
with  new  potentiahty  of  ownership  if  he  Hked,  which  truly 
I  suppose  he  never  did.  They  had  done  some  joinering, 
plank-flooring  in  the  farm-house,  which  was  weather-tight, 
newish  though  strait  and  dim,  and  there  on  rough  rus- 
tic terms,  perhaps  with  a  little  disappointment  to  the 
young  gentlemen,  Frank  and  his  Bermudians  lived,  Frank 
himself  for  several  years.  He  had  a  nimble  quick  pony, 
rode  latterly  (for  the  Bermudians  did  not  stay  above  a 
year  or  two)  much  about  among  his  cousinry  of  friends, 
always  halting  and  baiting  with  me  when  it  could  be 
managed.  I  had  at  once  gone  to  visit  him,  found  Bell 
Top  Hill  on  the  new  terms  as  interesting  as  ever.  A 
comfort  to  me  to  administer  some  comfort,  interesting 
even  to  compare  dyspeptic  notes.  Besides,  Frank  by  de- 
grees would  kindle  into  the  old  coruscations,  and  talk  as 
well  as  ever.  I  remember  some  of  those  visits  to  him, 
still  more  the  lonely  silent  rides  thither,  as  humanly  im- 
pressive, wholesome,  not  unpleasant ;  especially  after  my 
return  from  Buller  tutorship,  and  my  first  London  visit 
(in  1824),  when  I  was  at  Hoddam  Hill,  idly  high  and  dry 
like  Frank  (or  only  translating  German  romance,  etc.)  and 
had  a  horse  of  my  own.  Frank  took  considerably  to  my 
mother  ;  talked  a  great  deal  of  his  bitter  Byronic  scepti- 
cism to  her,  and  seemed  to  feel  like  oil  poured  into  his 
wounds  her  beautifully  pious  contradictions  of  him  and 
it.  "  Really  likes  to  be  contradicted,  poor  Frank  !  "  she 
would  tell  me  afterwards.  He  might  be  called  a  genuine 
bit  of  rustic  dignity— modestly,  frugally,  in  its  simplest 
expression,  gliding  about  among  us  there.     This  lasted 


EDWARD    IRVING.  II9 

till  perhaps  the  beginning  of  1826.  I  do  not  remember 
him  at  Scotsbrig  ever.  I  suppose  the  lease  of  his  farm 
may  have  run  out  that  year,  not  renewed,  and  that  he 
was  now  farther  away.  After  my  marriage,  perhaps  two 
years  after  it,  from  Craigenputtoch  I  wrote  to  him,  but 
never  got  the  least  answer,  never  saw  him  or  distinctly 
heard  of  him  more.  Indistinctly  I  did,  with  a  shock,  hear 
of  him  once,  and  then  a  second,  a  final  time,  thus.  My 
brother  Jamie,'  riding  to  Moffat  in  1828  or  so,  saw  near 
some  poor  cottage  (not  a  farm  at  all,  a  bare  place  for  a 
couple  of  cows,  perhaps  it  was  a  turnpike-keeper's  cot- 
tage), not  far  from  Moffat,  a  forlornly  miserable-looking 
figure,  walking  languidly  to  and  fro,  parted  from  him  by 
the  hedge,  whom  in  spite  of  this  sunk  condition  he  recog- 
nised clearly  for  Frank  Dickson,  who,  however,  took  no 
notice  of  him.  "  Perhaps  refuses  to  know  me,"  thought 
Jamie;  "they  have  lost  their  farm — sister  and  husband 
seem  to  have  taken  shelter  here,  and  there  is  the  poor 
gentleman  and  scholar  Frank  sauntering  miserably  with 
an  old  plaid  over  his  head,  slipshod  in  a  pair  of  old  clogs." 
That  was  Jamie's  guess,  which  he  reported  to  me  ;  and  a 
few  months  after,  grim  whisper  came,  low  but  certain — 
no  inquest  of  coroner  there — that  Frank  was  dead,  and 
had  gone  in  the  Roman  fashion.  What  other  could  he 
do  now — the  silent,  valiant,  though  vanquished  man  ?  He 
was  hardly  yet  thirty-five,  a  man  richer  in  gifts  than  nine- 
tenths  of  the  vocal  and  notable  are.  I  remember  him 
with  sorrow  and  affection,  native-countryman  Frank,  and 
his  little  life.     What  a  strange  little  island  fifty  years  off; 

'  Youngest  brother,  ten  years  my  junior. 


120  EDWARD   IRVING. 

sunny,  homelike,  pretty  in  the  memory,  yet  with  tragic 
thunders  waiting  it ! 

Irving's  Glasgow  news  from  the  first  were  good.  Ap- 
proved of,  accepted  by  the  great  Doctor  and  his  congre- 
gation, preaching  heartily,  labouring  with  the  "visiting 
deacons  "  (Chalmers's  grand  parochial  anti-pauperism  ap- 
paratus much  an  object  with  the  Doctor  at  this  time), 
seeing  and  experiencing  new  things  on  all  hands  of  him  in 
his  new  w^ide  element.  He  came  occasionally  to  Edin- 
burgh on  visit.  I  remember  him  as  of  prosperous  aspect; 
a  little  more  carefully,  more  clerically  dressed  than  for- 
merly (ample  black  frock,  a  little  longer  skirted  than  the 
secular  sort,  hat  of  gravish  breadth  of  brim,  all  very  simple 
and  correct).  He  would  talk  about  the  Glasgow  Radical 
weavers,  and  their  notable  receptions  of  him  and  utter.- 
ances  to  him  w-hile  visiting  their  lanes  ;  was  not  copious 
upon  his  great  Chalmers,  though  friendly  in  what  he  did 
say.  All  this  of  his  first  year  must  have  been  in  1820  or 
late  in  1819  ;  year  18 19  comes  back  into  my  mind  as  the 
year  of  the  Radical  "rising"  in  Glasgow;  and  the  kind 
of  altogether  imaginary  "  fight  "  they  attempted  on  Bonny 
Muir  against  the  Yeomanry  which  had  assembled  from 
far  and  wide.  A  time  of  great  rages  and  absurd  terrors 
and  expectations,  a  very  fierce  Radical  and  anti-Radical 
time.  Edinburgh  endlessly  agitated  by  it  all  round  me, 
not  to  mention  Glasgow  in  the  distance — gentry  people 
full  of  zeal  and  foolish  terror  and  fury,  and  looking  dis- 
gustingly busy  and  important.  Courier  hussars  would  come 
in  from  the  Glasgow  region  covered  with  mud,  breathless, 
for    head-quarters,    as    you    took    your    walk    in    Princes 


EDWARD   IRVING.  121 

Street  ;  and  you  would  hear  old  powdered  gentlemen  in 
silver  spectacles  talking  with  low-toned  but  exultant  voice 
about  "  cordon  of  troops,  sir"  as  you  went  along.  The 
mass  of  the  people,  not  the  populace  alone,  had  a  quite 
different  feeling,  as  if  the  danger  from  those  West-country 
Radicals  was  small  or  imaginary  and  their  grievances 
dreadfully  real ;  which  was  with  emphasis  my  own  private 
notion  of  it.  One  bleared  Sunday  morning,  perhaps  seven 
or  eight  A.M.  I  had  gone  out  for  my  walk.  At  the  riding- 
house  in  Nicholson  Street  was  a  kind  of  straggly  group, 
or  small  crowd,  with  redcoats  interspersed.  Coming  up 
I  perceived  it  was  the  "  Lothian  Yeomanry,"  Mid  or  East 
I  know  not,  just  getting  under  way  for  Glasgow  to  be  part 
of"  the  cordon."  I  halted  a  moment.  They  took  their 
way,  very  ill  ranked,  not  numerous  or  very  dangerous- 
looking  men  of  war  ;  but  there  rose  from  the  little  crowd 
by  way  of  farewell  cheer  to  them  the  strangest  shout  I 
have  heard  human  throats  utter,  not  very  loud,  or  loud 
even  for  the  small  numbers  ;  but  it  said  as  plain  as  words, 
and  with  infinitely  more  emphasis  of  sincerity,  "  May  the 
devil  go  with  you,  ye  peculiarly  contemptible  and  dead  to 
the  distresses  of  your  fellow-creatures."  Another  morn- 
ing, months  after,  spring  and  sun  now  come,  and  the 
"cordon"  etc.  all  over,  I  met  an  advocate  slightly  of  my 
acquaintance  hurrying  along  musket  in  hand  towards  the 
Links,  there  to  be  drilled  as  item  of  the  "gentlemen" 
volunteers  now  afoot.  "  You  should  have  the  like  of 
this"  said  he,  cheerily  patting  his  musket.  "  Hm,  yes; 
but  I  haven't  yet  quite  settled  on  which  side  " — which 
probably  he  hoped  was  quiz,  though  it  really  expressed 


122  EDWARD    IRVING. 

my  feeling.  Irving  too,  and  all  of  us  juniors,  had  the 
same  feeling  in  different  intensities,  and  spoken  of  only  to 
one  another  ;  a  sense  that  revolt  against  such  a  load  of 
unveracities,  impostures,  and  quietly  inane  formalities 
would  one  day  become  indispensable  ;  sense  which  had  a 
kind  of  rash,  false,  and  quasi-insolent  joy  in  it  ;  mutiny, 
revolt,  being  a  hght  matter  to  the  young. 

Irving  appeared  to  take  great  interest  in  his  Glasgow 
visitings  about  among  these  poor  weavers  and  free  com- 
munings with  them  as  man  with  man.  He  was  altogether 
human  we  heard  and  could  well  believe  ;  he  broke  at  once 
into  sociality  and  frankness,  would  pick  a  potato  from 
their  pot  and  in  eating  it  get  at  once  into  free  and  kindly 
terms.  "  Peace  be  with  you  here"  was  his  entering  sal- 
utation one  time  in  some  weaving  shop  which  had  politely 
paused  and  silenced  itself  on  sight  of  him  ;  "  peace  be 
with  you."  "Ay,  sir,  if  there's  plenty  wi't !  "  said  an 
angry  little  weaver  who  happened  to  be  on  the  floor,  and 
who  began  indignant  response  and  remonstrance  to  the 
minister  and  his  fine  words.  "  Quite  angry  and  fiery,"  as 
Irving  described  him  to  us  ;  a  fine  thoughtful  brow,  with 
the  veins  on  it  swollen  and  black,  and  the  eyes  under  it 
sparkling  and  glistening,  whom  however  he  succeeded  in 
pacifying,  and  parting  with  on  soft  terms.  This  was  one 
of  his  anecdotes  to  us.  I  remember  that  fiery  little  weaver 
and  his  broad  brow  and  swollen  veins,  a  vanished  figure 
of  those  days,  as  if  I  had  myself  seen  him. 

By  and  by,  after  repeated  invitations,  which  to  me 
were  permissions  rather,  the  time  came  for  my  paying  a 
return  visit.     I  well  remember  the  first  visit  and  pieces 


EDWARD   IRVING.    '  1 23 

of  the  others  ;  probably  there  were  three  or  even  four  in 
all,  each  of  them  a  real  holiday  to  me.  By  steamer  to 
Bo'ness  and  then  by  canal.  Skipper  of  canal  boat  and 
two  Glasgow  scamps  of  the  period,  these  are  figures  of 
the  first  voyage  ;  very  vivid  these,  the  rest  utterly  out. 
I  think  I  always  went  by  Bo'ness  and  steam  so  far,  coach 
the  remainder  of  the  road  in  all  subsequent  journeys. 
Irving  lived  in  Kent  Street,  eastern  end  of  Glasgow, 
ground  floor,  tolerably  spacious  room.  I  think  he  some- 
times gave  up  his  bedroom  (me  the  bad  sleeper)  and  went 
out  himself  to  some  friend's  house.  David  Hope  (cousin 
of  old  Adam's,  but  much  younger,  an  excellent  guileless 
man  and  merchant)  was  warmly  intimate  and  attached  ; 
the  like  William  Graham,  of  Burnswark,  Annandale,  a 
still  more  interesting  character  ;  with  both  of  whom  I 
made  or  renewed  acquaintance  which  turned  out  to  be 
agreeable  and  lasting.  These  two  were  perhaps  Irving's 
most  domestic  and  practically  trusted  friends,  but  he  had 
already  many  in  the  better  Glasgow  circles  ;  and  in  gen- 
erous liking  and  appreciation  tended  to  excess,  never  to 
defect,  with  one  and  all  of  them.  "  Philosophers  "  called 
at  Kent  Street  whom  one  did  not  find  so  extremely  phil- 
osophical, though  all  were  amiable  and  of  polite  and 
partly  religious  turn  ;  and  in  fact  these  reviews  of  Glas- 
gow in  its  streets,  in  its  jolly  Christmas  dining-rooms  and 
drawing-rooms,  were  cordial  and  instructive  to  me  ;  the 
solid  style  of  comfort,  freedom,  and  plenty  Avas  new  to 
me  in  that  degree.  The  Tontine  (my  first  evening  in 
Glasgow)  was  quite  a  treat  to  my  rustic  eyes  ;  several 
hundreds  of  such    fine,  clean   opulent,   and  enviable   or 


124  EDWARD    IRVING. 

amiable-looking  good  Scotch  gentlemen  sauntering  about 
in  truthful  gossip  or  solidly  reading  their  newspapers.  I 
remember  the  shining  bald  crowns  and  serene  white  heads 
of  several,  and  the  feeling,  O  fortiuiatos  nimium,  which 
they  generally  gave  mc.  Irving  was  not  with  me  on  this 
occasion  ;  had  probably  left  me  there  for  some  half-hour, 
and  would  come  to  pick  me  up  again  when  ready.  We 
made  morning  calls  together  too,  not  very  many,  and 
found  once,  I  recollect,  an  exuberant  bevy  of  young 
ladies  which  I  (silently)  took  as  sample  of  great  and  sin- 
gular privilege  in  my  friend's  way  of  life.  Oftenest  it  was 
crotchety,  speculative,  semi-theological  elderly  gentlemen 
whom  we  met,  with  curiosity  and  as  yet  without  weari- 
ness on  my  part,  though  of  course  their  laughing  chatting 
daughters  would  have  been  better.  The  Glasgow  women 
of  the  young  lady  stamp  seemed  to  me  well-looking, 
clever  enough,  good-humoured  :  but  I  noticed  (for  my 
own  behoof  and  without  prompting  of  any  kind)  that  they 
were  not  so  zvell  dressed  as  their  Edinburgh  sisters ; 
something  flary,  glary,  colours  too  flagrant  and  ill-as- 
sorted, want  of  the  harmonious  transitions,  neatnesses, 
and  soft  Attic  art  which  I  now  recognised  or  remembered 
for  the  first  time. 

Of  Dr.  Chalmers  I  heard  a  great  deal ;  naturally  the 
continual  topic,  or  one  of  them  ;  admiration  universal,  and 
as  it  seemed  to  mc  slightly  wearisome,  and  a  good  deal  in- 
discriminate and  overdone,  which  probably  (though  we 
were  dead  silent  on  that  head)  was  on  occasions  Irving's 
feeling  too.  But  the  great  man  was  himself  truly  lovable, 
truly  loved  ;  and  nothing  personally  could  be  more  mod- 


EDWARD    IRVING.  12$ 

est,  intent  on  his  good  industries,  not  on  himself  or  his 
fame.  Twice  that  I  recollect  I  specially  saw  him  ;  once 
at  his  own  house,  to  breakfast ;  company  Irving,  one 
Crosby,  a  young  licentiate,  with  glaring  eyes  and  no  spec-it 
ulation  in  them,  who  went  afterwards  to  Birmingham,  anda 
thirdly  myself.  It  was  a  cold  vile  smoky  morning  ;  housee 
and  breakfast-room  looked  their  worst  in  the  dismal  light. 
Doctor  himself  was  hospitably  kind,  but  spoke  little  and 
engaged  none  of  us  in  talk.  Oftenest,  I  could  see,  he  was 
absent,  wandering  in  distant  fields  of  abstruse  character, 
to  judge  by  the  sorrowful  glaze  which  came  over  his  hon- 
est eyes  and  face.  I  was  not  ill  pleased  to  get  away,  ig- 
notiis,  from  one  of  whom  I  had  gained  no  new  knowledge. 
The  second  time  was  in  a  fine  drawing-room  (a  Mr.  Par- 
ker's) in  a  rather  solemn  evening  party,  where  the  Doctor, 
perhaps  bored  by  the  secularities  and  trivialities  elsewhere, 
put  his  chair  beside  mine  in  some  clear  space  of  floor,  and 
talked  earnestly  for  a  good  while  on  some  scheme  he  had 
for  proving  Christianity  by  its  visible  fitness  for  human 
nature.  "  All  written  in  us  already,"  he  said,  "  in  sym- 
pathetic ink.  Bible  awakens  it ;  and  you  can  read."  I 
listened  respectfully,  not  with  any  real  conviction,  only 
with  a  clear  sense  of  the  geniality  and  goodness  of  the 
man.  I  never  saw  him  again  till  within  a  few  months  of 
his  death,  when  he  called  here,  and  sate  with  us  an  hour, 
very  agreeable  to  her  and  to  me  after  the  long  abeyance. 
She  had  been  with  him  once  on  a  short  tour  in  the  High- 
lands ;  me  too  he  had  got  an  esteem  of — liked  the  "  Crom- 
well "  especially,  and  Cromwell's  self  ditto,  which  I  hardly 
reckoned  creditable  of  him.      He  did  not  speak  of  that, 


126  .  EDWARD   IRVING. 

nor  of  the  Free  Kirk  war,  though  I  gave  him  a  chance  of 

that  which  he  soon  softly  let  drop.     The  now  memorablest 

point  to  me  was  of  Painter  Wilkie,  who  had  been  his  fa- 

^niliar  in  youth,  and  whom  he  seemed  to  me  to  understand 
oi 

,  .veil.  "  Painter's  language,"  he  said,  "  was  stinted  and 
difficult."  Wilkie  had  told  him  how  in  painting  his  Rent 
Day  he  thought  long,  and  to  no  purpose,  by  what  means 
he  should  signify  that  the  sorrowful  woman  with  the  chil- 
dren there,  had  left  no  husband  at  home,  but  was  a  widow 
under  tragical  self  management ;  till  one  morning,  pushing 
along  the  Strand,  he  met  a  small  artisan  family  going  evi- 
dently on  excursion,  and  in  one  of  their  hands  or  pockets 
somewhere  was  visible  the  house-key.  "  That  will  do," 
thought  Wilkie,  and  prettily  introduced  the  house-key  as 
coi-al  in  the  poor  baby's  mouth,  just  drawn  from  poor 
mammy's  pocket,  to  keep  her  unconscious  little  orphan 
peaceable.  He  warmly  agreed  with  me  in  thinking 
Wilkie  a  man  of  real  genius,  real  vivacity  and  simplicity. 
Chalmers  was  himself  very  beautiful  to  us  during  that 
hour,  grave — not  too  grave — earnest,  cordial  face  and  fig- 
ure very  little  altered,  only  the  head  had  grown  white,  and 
in  the  eyes  and  features  you  could  read  something  of  a 
serene  sadness,  as  if  evening  and  star-crowned  night  were 
coming  on,  and  the  hot  noises  of  the  day  growing  unex- 
pectedly insignificant  to  one.  We  had  little  thought  this 
would  be  the  last  of  Chalmers  ;  but  in  a  few  weeks  after 
he  suddenly  died  ...  He  was  a  man  of  much  natural 
dignity,  ingenuity,  honesty,  and  kind  aff"ection,  as  well  as 
sound  intellect  and  imagination.  A  very  eminent  viva- 
city lay  in  him,  which  could  rise  to  complete  impetuosity 


EDWARD   IRVING.  12/ 

(growing  conviction,  passionate  eloquence,  fiery  play  of 
heart  and  head)  all  in  a  kind  of  rustic  type,  one  might  say, 
though  wonderfully  true  and  tender.  He  had  a  burst  of 
genuine  fun  too,  I  have  heard,  of  the  same  honest  but 
most  plebeian  broadly  natural  character  ;  his  laugh  was  a 
hearty  low  guffaw  ;  and  his  tones  in  preaching  would  rise 
to  the  piercingly  pathetic — no  preacher  ever  went  so  into 
one's  heart.  He  was  a  man  essentially  of  little  culture, 
of  narrow  sphere,  all  his  life  ;  such  an  intellect  professing 
to  be  educated,  and  yet  so  ill  read,  so  ignorant  in  all  that 
lay  beyond  the  horizon  in  place  or  in  time,  I  have  almost 
nowhere  met  with.  A  man  capable  of  much  soaking  in- 
dolence, lazy  brooding  and  do-nothingism,  as  the  first  stage 
of  his  life  well  indicated  ;  a  man  thought  to  be  timid  al- 
most to  the  verge  of  cowardice,  yet  capable  of  impetuous 
activity  and  blazing  audacity,  as  his  latter  years  showed. 

I  suppose  there  will  never  again  be  such  a  preacher  in 
any  Christian  church. 

[A  slip  from  a  newspaper  is  appended  here,  with  a  note 
to  it  in  Carlyle's  hand. 

"  It  is  a  favourite  speculation  of  mine  that  if  spared  to 
sixty  we  then  enter  on  the  seventh  decade  of  human  life, 
and  that  this  if  possible  should  be  turned  into  the  Sab- 
bath of  our  earthly  pilgrimage  and  spent  sabbatically,  as 
if  on  the  shores  of  an  eternal  world,  or  in  the  outer  courts 
as  it  were  of  the  temple  that  is  above,  the  tabernacle  in 
Heaven.  What  enamours  me  all  the  more  of  this  idea  is 
the  retrospect  of  my  mother's  widowhood.  I  long,  if 
God  should  spare  me,  for  such  an  old  age  as  she  enjoyed, 
spent  as  if  at  the  gate  of  heaven,  and  with  such  a  fund  of 


128  EDWARD    IRVING. 

inward  peace  and  hope  as  made  her  nine  years'  widow- 
hood a  perfect  feast  and  foretaste  of  the  blessedness  that 
awaits  the  righteous." — Dr.  Chalmers. 

Carlyle  writes  : 

"  Had  heard  it  before  from  Thomas  Erskine  (of  Lin- 
lathen),  with  pathetic  comment  as  to  what  Chalmers's 
own  sabbath-decade  had  been."] 

Irving's  discourses  were  far  more  opulent  in  ingenious 
thought  than  Chalmers's,  which  indeed  were  usually  the 
triumphant  on-rush  o(  one  idea  with  its  satellites  and  sup- 
porters. But  Irving's  wanted  in  definite  /icad  and  back- 
bo?te^  so  that  on  arriving  you  might  see  clearly  where  and 
how.  That  was  mostly  a  defect  one  felt  in  traversing 
those  grand  forest-avenues  of  his  with  their  multifari- 
ous outlooks  to  right  and  left.  He  had  many  thoughts 
pregnantly  expressed,  but  they  did  not  tend  all  one  way. 
The  reason  was  there  were  in  him  infinitely  more  thoughts 
than  in  Chalmers,  and  he  took  far  less  pains  in  setting 
them  forth.  The  uniform  custom  was,  he  shut  himself  up 
all  Saturday,  became  invisible  all  that  day  ;  and  had  his 
sermon  ready  before  going  to  bed.  Sermon  an  hour  long 
or  more  ;  it  could  not  be  done  in  one  day,  except  as  a 
kind  of  extempore  thing.  It  flowed  along,  not  as  a  swift 
flowing  river,  but  as  a  broad,  deep,  and  bending  or 
meandering  one.  Sometimes  it  left  on  you  the  im- 
pression almost  of  a  fine  noteworthy  lake.  Noteworthy 
always ;  nobody  could  mistake  it  for  the  discourse  of 
other  than  an  uncommon  man.  Originality  and  truth  of 
purpose  were  undeniable  in  it,  but  there  was  withal,  both 
in  the  matter  and  the  manner,  a  something  which  might 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 29 

be  suspected  of  affectation,  a  noticeable  preference  and 
search  for  striking  quaint  and  ancient  locutions  ;  a  style 
modelled  on  the  Miltonic  old  Puritan  ;  something  too  in 
the  delivering  which  seemed  elaborate  and  of  forethought, 
or  might  be  suspected  of  being  so.  He  (still)  always 
read,  but  not  in  the  least  slavishly ;  and  made  abundant 
rather  strong  gesticulations  in  the  right  places  ;  voice  one 
of  the  finest  and  powerfuUest,  but  not  a  power  quite  on 
the  heart  as  Chalmers's  was,  which  you  felt  to  be  coming 
direct  from  the  heart.  Irving's  preaching  was  accordingly 
a  thing  not  above  criticism  to  the  Glasgowites,  and  it  got 
a  good  deal  on  friendly  terms,  as  well  as  admiration 
plenty,  in  that  tempered  form  ;  not  often  admiration  pure 
and  simple,  as  was  now  always  Chalmers's  lot  there. 
Irving  no  doubt  secretly  felt  the  difference,  and  could 
have  wished  it  otherwise  ;  but  the  generous  heart  of  him 
was  incapable  of  envying  any  human  excellence,  and 
instinctively  would  either  bow  to  it  and  to  the  rewards 
of  it  withal,  or  rise  to  loyal  emulation  of  it  and  them.  He 
seemed  to  be  much  liked  by  many  good  people  ;  a  fine 
friendly  and  wholesome  element  I  thought  it  for  him  ; 
and  the  criticisms  going,  in  connection  with  the  genuine 
admiration  going,  might  be  taken  as  handsomely  near 
the  mark. 

To  me,  for  his  sake,  his  Glasgow  friends  were  very 
good,  and  I  liked  their  ways  (as  I  might  easily  do)  much 
better  than  some  I  had  been  used  to.  A  romance  of 
novelty  lay  in  them  too.  It  was  the  Jirst  time  I  had 
looked  into  opulent  burgher  life  in  any  such  complete- 
ness and  composed  solidity  as  here.  We  went  to  Paisley 
9 


130  EDWARD    IRVING. 

several  times,  to  certain  "  Carliles  "  (so  they  spelt  their 
name  ;  Annan  people  of  a  century  back),  rich  enough  old 
men  of  religious  moral  turn,  who  received  me  as  "a 
cousin  ;  "  their  daughters  good  if  not  pretty,  and  one 
of  the  sons  (Warrand  Carlile,  who  afterwards  became  a 
clergyman)  not  quite  uninteresting  to  me  for  some  years 
coming.  He  married  the  youngest  sister  of  Edward 
Irving,  and  I  think  is  still  preaching  somewhere  in  the 
West  Indies.  Wife  long  since  died,  but  one  of  their 
sons,  "Gavin  Carlile"  (or  now  Carlyle),  a  Free  Kirk 
minister  here  in  London,  editing  his  uncle's  select  works 
just  now  (1866).  David  Hope,  of  Glasgow,  always  a  little 
stuck  to  me  afterwards,  an  innocent  cheerful  Nathaniel, 
ever  ready  to  obHge.  The  like  much  more  emphaticaUy 
did  William  Graham  of  Burnswark,  whom  I  first  met  in 
the  above  city  under  Irving's  auspices,  and  who  might  in 
his  way  be  called  a  friend  both  to  Irving  and  me  so  long 
as  his  life  lasted,  which  was  thirty  odd  years  longer. 
Other  conquests  of  mine  in  Glasgow  I  don't  recollect. 
Graham  of  Burnswark  perhaps  deserves  a  paragraph. 

Graham  was  turned  of  fifty  when  I  first  saw  him,  a 
lumpish,  heavy,  but  stirring  figure  ;  had  got  something 
lamish  about  one  of  the  knees  or  ankles  which  gave  a 
'certain  rocking  motion  to  his  gait ;  firm  jocund  affection- 
ate face,  rather  reddish  with  good  cheer,  eyes  big,  blue 
and  laughing,  nose  defaced  with  snuff,  fine  bald  broad- 
browed  head,  ditto  almost  always  with  an  ugly  brown 
scratch  wig.  He  was  free  of  hand  and  of  heart,  laughed 
with  sincerity  at  not  very  much  of  fun,  liked  widely  yet 
with  some  selection,  and  was  widely  liked.     The  history 


EDWARD   IRVING.  I3I 

of  him  was  curious.  His  father,  first  some  small  farmer 
in  "  Corrie  Water"  perhaps,  was  latterly  for  many  years 
(I  forget  whether  as  farmer  or  as  shepherd,  but  guess  the 
former)  stationary  at  Burnswark,  a  notable  tabular  hill, 
of  no  great  height,  but  detached  a  good  way  on  every 
side,  far  seen  almost  to  the  shores  of  Liverpool,  indeed 
commanding  all  round  the  whole  of  that  large  saucer,  fifty 
to  thirty  miles  in  radius,  the  brother  point  of  which  is 
now  called  Gretna  ("  Cretan  How,"  Big  Hollow,  at  the 
head  of  Sohvay  Frith)  ;  a  Burnswark  beautiful  to  look  on 
and  much  noted  from  of  old.  Has  a  glorious  Roman 
camp  on  the  south  flank  of  it,  "  the  best  preserved  in 
Britain  except  one  "  (says  General  Roy)  ;  velvet  sward 
covering  the  whole,  but  trenches,  praetorium  (three  conic 
mounds)  etc.  not  altered  otherwise  ;  one  of  the  finest  lim- 
pid wells  within  it ;  and  a  view  to  Liverpool  as  was  said, 
and  into  Tynedale,  to  the  Cumberland  and  even  York- 
shire mountains  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  into 
the  Moffat  ditto  and  the  Selkirkshire  and  Eskdale. 

The  name  "Burnswark"  is  probably  Birrenswark  (or 
fortification  work).  Three  Roman  stations,  with  Carlisle 
(Caer  Lewel,  as  old  as  King  Solomon)  for  mother :  Neth- 
erbie,  Middlebie,  and  Owerbie  (or  Upperby)  in  Eskdale. 
The  specific  Roman  town  of  Middlebie  is  about  half  a 
mile  below  the  Kirk  (i.e.  eastward  of  it)  and  is  called  by 
the  countn.'  people  "the  Birrens  "(i.e.  the  Scrags  or 
Haggles,  I  should  think),  a  place  lying  all  in  dimples  and 
wrinkles,  with  ruined  houses  if  you  dig  at  all,  grassy  but 
inarable  part  of  which  is  still  kept  sacred  in  lea  by  "  the 
Duke  "  (of  Oueensberry,  now  of  Buccleuch  and  Queens- 


132  EDWARD    IRVING. 

berry)  while  the  rest  has  been  all  dug  to  powder  in  the 
last  sixty  or  seventy  years  by  the  adjoining  little  lairds. 
Many  altars,  stone  figures,  tools,  axes,  etc.  were  got  out 
of  the  dug  part,  and  it  used  to  be  one  of  the  tasks  of  my 
boyhood  to  try  what  I  could  do  at  reading  the  inscrip- 
tions found  there  ;  which  was  not  much,  nor  almost  ever 
wholly  enough,  though  the  country  folk  were  thankful  for 
my  little  Latin  f^iithfully  applied,  like  the  light  of  a  damp 
windlestraw  to  them  in  what  was  total  darkness.  The 
fable  went  that  from  Birrens  to  Birrenswark,  two  and  a 
half  miles,  there  ran  a  "subterranean  passage,"  complete 
tunnel,  equal  to  carts  perhaps,  but  nobody  pretended  even 
to  have  seen  a  trace  of  it,  or  indeed  did  believe  it. 

In  my  boyhood,  passing  Birrens  for  the  first  time,  I 
noticed  a  small  conduit  (cloaca,  I  suppose)  abruptly  end- 
ing or  issuing  in  the  then  recent  precipice  which  had  been 
left  by  those  diggers,  and  recollect  nothing  more,  except 
my  own  poor  awe  and  wonder  at  the  strange  scene, 
strange  face  to  face  vestige  of  the  vanished  aeons.  The 
Caledonian  Railway  now  screams  and  shudders  over  this 
dug  part  of  Birrens  ;  William  Graham,  whom  I  am  (too 
idly)  writing  of,  was  born  at  the  north-east  end  of  Burns- 
wark,  and  passed  in  labour,  but  in  health,  frugality,  and 
joy,  the  first  twenty-five  years  of  his  life. 

Graham's  father  and  mother  seem  to  have  been  of  the 
best  kind  of  Scottish  peasant ;  he  had  brothers  two  or 
perhaps  three,  of  whom  William  was  the  youngest,  who 
were  all  respected  in  their  state,  and  who  all  successively 
emigrated  to  America  on  the  following  slight  first-cause. 
John  Graham,  namely  the  eldest  of  the  brothers,  had  been 


EDWARD    IRVING.  1 33 

balloted  for  the  Militia  (Dumfriesshire  Militia),  and  on 
private  consideration  with  himself  preferred  expatriation 
to  soldiering,  and  quietly  took  ship  to  push  his  fortune  in 
the  New  World  instead.  John's  adventures,  which  prob- 
ably were  rugged  enough,  are  not  on  record  for  me ; 
only  that  in  no  great  length  of  time  he  found  something 
of  success,  a  solid  merchant's  clerkship  or  the  like,  with 
outlooks  towards  merchant's  business  of  his  own  one  day  ; 
and  invited  thither  one  by  one  all  his  brothers  to  share 
with  him  or  push  like  him  there.  Philadelphia  was  the 
place,  at  least  the  ultimate  place,  and  the  firm  of"  Graham 
Brothers  "  gradually  rose  to  be  a  considerable  and  well- 
reputed  house  in  that  city.  William,  probably  some  fif- 
teen years  junior  of  John,  was  the  last  brother  that  went  ; 
after  him  their  only  sister,  parents  having  now  died  at 
Burnswark,  was  sent  for  also,  and  kept  house  for  William 
or  for  another  of  the  bachelor  brothers — one  at  least  of 
them  had  v/edded  and  has  left  Pennsylvanian  Grahams. 
William  continued  bachelor  for  life ;  and  this  only  sister 
returned  ultimately  to  Annandale,  and  was  William's 
house  manager  there,  I  remember  her  well,  one  of  the 
amiablest  of  old  maids  ;  kind,  true,  modestly  polite  to  the 
very  heart  ;  and  in  such  a  curious  style  of  polite  culture  ; 
Pennsylvanian  Yankee  grafted  on  Annandale  Scotch. 
Used  to  "  expect  "  instead  of  "  suppose,"  would  "  guess  " 
now  and  then,  and  commonly  said  Pastor  (which  she  pro- 
nounced "  Paustor  ")  to  signify  clergyman  or  minister. 

The  Graham  Brothers  house  growing  more  and  more 
prosperous  and  opulent  in  Philadelphia,  resolved  at  last 
to  have  a  branch  in  Glasgow  (year  1814  or  so)  and  de- 


134  EDWARD   IRVING. 

spatched  William  thither,  whose  coming  I  dimly  remem- 
ber was  heard  of  in  Annandale  by  his  triumphant  purchase 
for  himself  in  fee  simple  of  the  farm  and  hill  of  Burnswark 
which  happened  to  come  into  the  market  then.  His 
tradings  and  observations  in  Glasgow  were  extensive, 
not  unskilful  that  I  heard  of,  and  were  well  looked  on,  as 
he  himself  still  more  warmly  was,  but  at  length  (perhaps 
a  year  or  more  before  my  first  sight  of  him)  some  grand 
cargo  from  or  to  Philadelphia,  some  whole  fleet  of  car- 
goes, all  mostly  of  the  same  commodity,  had  by  sudden 
change  of  price  during  the  voyage  ruinously  misgone,  and 
the  fine  house  of  Graham  Brothers  came  to  the  ground. 
William  was  still  in  the  throes  of  settlement,  just  about 
quitting  his  fine  well-appointed  mansion  in  Vincent 
Street,  in  a  cheerfully  stoical  humour,  and  only  clinging 
with  invincible  tenacity  to  native  Burnswark,  which  of 
course  was  no  longer  his  except  on  bond  with  securities, 
with  interest,  etc.,  all  of  excessive  extent,  his  friends  said, 
but  could  not  persuade  him,  so  dear  to  his  heart  was  that 
native  bit  of  earth,  with  the  fond  improvements,  planting 
and  the  like,  which  he  had  begun  upon  it. 

Poor  Graham  kept  iron  hold  of  Burnswark,  ultimately 
as  plain  tenant ;  good  sheep  farm  at  a  fair  rent ;  all  at- 
tempts otherwise,  and  they  were  many  and  strenuous, 
having  issued  in  non-success,  and  the  hope  of  ever  recov- 
ering himself,  or  it,  being  plainly  futile.  Graham  never 
merchantcd  more  ;  was  once  in  America  on  exploratory 
visit,  where  his  brothers  were  in  some  degree  set  up 
again,  but  had  no  8,ooo/.  to  spare  for  his  Burnswark. 
He  still  hung  a  little  to   Glasgow,  tried  various  things, 


EDWARD    IRVING.  135 

rather  of  a  "  projector"  sort,  all  of  which  miscarried,  till 
happily  he  at  length  ceased  visiting  Glasgow,  and  grew 
altogether  rustic,  a  successful  sheep-farmer  at  any  rate, 
fat,  cheery,  happy,  and  so  for  his  last  twenty  years  rode 
visiting  about  among  the  little  lairds  of  an  intelligent 
turn,  who  liked  him  well,  but  not  with  entire  acquiescence 
in  all  the  copious  quasi-intelligent  talk  he  had.  Irving 
had  a  real  love  for  him,  with  silent  deductions  in  the  un- 
important respects  ;  he  an  entire  loyalty  and  heart-devo- 
tedness  to  Irving.  Me  also  he  took  up  in  a  very  warm 
manner,  and  for  the  first  few  years  was  really  pleasant 
and  of  use  to  me,  especially  in  my  then  Annandale  sum- 
mers. Through  him  I  made  acquaintance  with  a  really 
intellectual  modest  circle,  or  rather  pair  of  people,  a  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Johnston,  at  their  place  called  Grange,  on  the 
edge  of  the  hill  country,  seven  or  eight  miles  from  my 
father's.  Mrs.  Johnston  was  a  Glasgow  lady,  of  fine  cul- 
ture, manners,  and  intellect  ;  one  of  the  smallest  voices, 
and  most  dehcate,  gently  smiling  figure ;  had  been  in 
London,  etc.  Her  husband  was  by  birth  laird  of  this 
pretty  Grange,  and  had  modestly  withdrawn  to  it,  finding 
merchanthood  in  Glasgow  ruinous  to  weak  health.  The 
elegance,  the  perfect  courtesy,  the  simple  purity  and 
beauty  I  found  in  both  these  good  people,  was  an  authen- 
tic attraction  and  profit  to  me  in  those  years,  and  I  still 
remember  them  and  the  bright  little  environment  of  them, 
with  a  kind  of  pathetic  affection.  I  as  good  as  lost  them 
on  my  leaving  Annandale.  Mr.  Johnston  soon  after 
died ;  and  with  Mrs.  Johnson  there  could  only  be  at  rare 


136  EDWARD   IRVING. 

intervals  a  flying  call,  sometimes  only  the  attempt  at  such, 
which  amounted  to  little, 

Graham  also  I  practically  more  and  more  lost  from 
that  epoch  (1826),  ever  memorable  to  me  otherwise.  He 
hung  about  me  studiously,  and  with  unabating  good-will, 
on  my  Annandalc  visits  to  my  mother,  to  whom  he  was 
ever  attentive  and  respectful  for  my  sake  and  her  own. 
Dear  good  mother  !  best  of  mothers  !  He  pointed  out 
the  light  of  her  "  end  window,"  gad/e  window,  one  dark 
night  to  me,  as  I  convoyed  him  from  Scotsbrig.  "Will 
there  ever  be  in  the  world  for  you  a  prettier  light  than 
that  ?  "  He  was  once  or  more  with  us  at  Craigenput- 
toch,  ditto  at  London,  and  wrote  long  letters,  not  un- 
pleasant to  read  and  biirn.  But  his  sphere  was  shrinking 
more  and  more  into  dark  safety  and  monstrous  rusticity, 
mine  the  reverse  in  respect  of  safety  and  otherwise — nay, 
at  length  his  faculties  were  getting  hebetated,  wrapt  in 
lazy  eupeptic  fat.  The  last  time  I  ever,  strictly  speak- 
ing, saw  him  (for  he  was  grown  more  completely  stupid 
and  oblivious  every  subsequent  time),  was  at  the  ending 
of  my  mother's  funeral  (December  1853),  day  bitterly 
cold,  heart  bitterly  sad,  at  the  gate  of  Ecclefechan  kirk- 
yard.  He  was  sitting  in  his  gig  just  about  to  go,  I  ready 
to  mount  for  Scotsbrig,  and  in  a  day  more  for  London  ; 
he  gazed  on  me  with  his  big  innocent  face,  big  heavy 
eyes,  as  if  half  conscious,  half-frozen  in  the  cold,  and  we 
shook  hands  nearly  in  silence. 

In  the  Irving  Glasgow  time,  and  for  awhile  afterwards, 
there  went  on  at  Edinburgh  too  a  kind  of  cheery  visiting 
and  messaging  from  these  good  Graham-Hope  people. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  137 

I  do  not  recollect  the  visits  as  peculiarly  successful,  none 
of  them  except  one,  which  was  on  occasion  of  George 
IV. 's  famed  "visit  to  Edinburgh,"  when  Graham  and 
Hope  (I  think  both  of  them  together),  occupied  my  rooms 
with  grateful  satisfaction.  I  myself  not  there.  I  had 
grown  disgusted  with  the  fulsome  "  loyalty  "  of  all  classes 
in  Edinburgh  towards  this  approaching  George  Fourth 
visit  ;  whom  though  called  and  reckoned  a  "  king,"  I  in 
my  private  radicalism  of  mind  could  consider  only  as  a — 
what  shall  I  call  him  ?  and  loyalt}^  was  not  the  feeling  I 
had  towards  any  part  of  the  phenomenon.  At  length 
reading  one  day  in  a  public  placard  from  the  magistrates 
(of  which  there  had  been  several),  that  on  His  Majesty's 
advent  it  was  expected  that  everybody  would  be  carefully 
well-dressed,  "black  coat  and  white  duck  trousers,"  if  at 
all  convenient,  I  grumbled  to  myself,  "  scandalous 
flunkeys  !  I,  if  I  were  changing  my  dress  at  all,  should 
incline  rather  to  be  in  white  coat  and  black  trousers  ;  " 
but  resolved  rather  to  quit  the  city  altogether,  and  be  ab- 
sent and  silent  in  such  efflorescence  of  the  flunkeyisms, 
which  I  was — for  a  week  or  more  in  Annandale,  at  Kirk- 
christ  with  the  Churches  in  Galloway  ;  ride  to  Lochin- 
brack  Well  by  Kenmore  Lake,  etc.,  how  vivid  still  !  and 
found  all  comfortably  rolled  away  at  my  return  to  Edin- 
burgh. 

It  was  in  one  of  those  visits  by  Irving  himself,'  without 
any  company,  that  he  took  me  out  to  Haddington  (as  re- 
corded elsewhere),  to  what  has  since  been  so  momentous 
through  all  my  subsequent  life.     We  walked  and  talked 

'  June  1821. 


138  EDWARD   IRVING. 

a  <^ood  sixteen  miles  in  the  sunny  summer  afternoon. 
He  took  me  round  by  Athelstanford  ("  Elshinford  ")  par- 
ish, where  John  Home  wrote  his  "  Douglas  "  in  case  of 
any  enthusiasm  for  Home  or  it,  which  I  secretly  had  not. 
We  leapt  the  solitary  kirkyard  wall,  and  found  close  by  us 
the  tombstone  of  "  old  Skirring,"  a  more  remarkable  per- 
son, author  of  the  strangely  vigorous  doggrel  ballad  on 
**  Preston  Pans  Battle  "  (and  the  ditto  answer  to  a  military 
challenge  which  ensued  thereupon),  "■  one  of  the  most 
athletic  and  best  natured  of  men,"  said  his  epitaph.  This 
is  nearly  all  I  recollect  of  the  journey  ;  the  end  of  it,  and 
what  I  saw  there,  will  be  memorable  to  me  while  life  or 
thought  endures.  Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! — I  think  there  had 
been  before  this  on  Irving's  own  part  some  movements  of 
negotiation  over  to  Kirkcaldy  for  release  there,  and  of 
hinted  hope  towards  Haddington,  which  was  so  infinitely 
miserable  !  and  something  (as  I  used  to  gather  long  after- 
wards) might  have  come  of  it  had  not  Kirkcaldy  been  so 
peremptory  and  stood  by  its  bond  (as  spoken  or  as  writ- 
ten), "  bond  or  utter  ruin,  sir  !  "  upon  which  Irving  had 
honourably  submitted  and  resigned  himself.  He  seemed 
to  be  quite  composed  upon  the  matter  by  this  time.'  I 
remember  in  an  inn  at  Haddington  that  first  night  a  little 
passage.  We  had  just  seen  in  the  minister's  house  (whom 
Irving  was  to  preach  for),  a  certan  shining  Miss  Augusta, 
tall,  shapely,  airy,  giggly,  but  a  consumniate  fool,  whom 
I  have  heard  called  "Miss  Disgusta"  by  the  satirical. 
We  were  now  in  our  double-bedded  room,  George  Inn, 

'  Carlyle  was  mistaken  here.     Irving's  hopes  at  this  time  were  at  their 
brightest. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 39 

Haddington,  stripping,  or  perhaps  each  already  in  his 
bed,  when  Irving  jocosely  said  to  me,  "  What  would  you 
take  to  marry  Miss  Augusta  now  ?  "  "  Not  for  an  entire 
and  perfect  chrysolite  the  size  of  this  terraqueous  globe," 
answered  I  at  once  ;  with  hearty  laughter  from  Irving. 
"  And  what  would  you  take  to  marry  Miss  Jeannie, 
think  you  ?  "  "  Hah,  I  should  not  be  so  hard  to  deal  with 
there  I  should  imagine  ! "  upon  which  another  bit  of 
laugh  from  Irving,  and  we  composedly  went  to  sleep,  I 
was  supremely  dyspeptic  and  out  of  health  during  those 
three  or  four  days,  and  they  were  the  beginning  of  a  new 
life  to  me. 

The  notablest  passage  in  my  Glasgow  visits  was  prob- 
ably the  year  before  this  Edinburgh-Haddington  one  on 
Irving's  part.  I  was  about  quitting  Edinburgh  for  An- 
nandale,  and  had  come  round  by  Glasgow  on  the  road 
home.  I  was  utterly  out  of  health  as  usual,  but  had 
otherwise  had  my  enjoyments.  We  had  come  to  Paisley 
as  finale,  and  were  lodging  pleasantly  with  the  Carliles. 
Warrand  Carlile,  hearing  I  had  to  go  by  Muirkirk  in  Ayr- 
shire, and  Irving  to  return  to  Glasgow,  suggested  a  con- 
voy of  me  by  Irving  and  himself,  furthered  by  a  fine 
riding  horse  of  Warrand's,  on  the  ride-and-tie  principle. 
Irving  had  cheerfully  consented.  "  You  and  your  horse 
as  far  as  you  can  ;  I  will  go  on  to  Drumclog  Moss  with 
Carlyle ;  then  turn  home  for  Glasgow  in  good  time,  he  on 
to  Muirkirk  which  will  be  about  a  like  distance  for  him." 
"  Done,  done  !  "  To  me  of  course  nothing  could  be  wel- 
comer  than  this  improvised  convoy,  upon  which  we  en- 
tered accordingly  ;  early  A.M.,  a  dry  brisk  April  day,  and 


I40  EDWARD   IRVING, 

one  still  full  of  strange  dim  interest  to  me.  I  never  rode 
and  tied  (especially  with  three)  before  or  since,  but  recol- 
lect we  had  no  difficulty  with  it. 

Warrand  had  settled  that  we  should  breakfast  with  a 
Rev.  Mr.  French  some  fifteen  miles  off,  after  which  he 
and  horse  would  return.  I  recollect  the  Mr.  French,  a  fat 
apoplectic-looking  old  gentleman,  in  a  room  of  very  low 
ceiling,  but  plentifully  furnished  with  breakfast  materials ; 
who  was  very  kind  to  us,  and  seemed  glad  and  ready  to 
be  invaded  in  this  sudden  manner  by  articulate  speaking 
young  men.  Good  old  soul  !  I  never  saw  him  or  heard 
mention  of  him  again. 

Drumclog  Moss  (after  several  hours  fallen  vacant  and 
wholly  dim)  is  the  next  object  that  survives,  and  Irving 
and  I  sitting  by  ourselves  under  the  silent  bright  skies 
among  the  "peat-hags"  of  Drumclog  with  a  world  all 
silent  round  us.  These  peat-hags  are  still  pictured  in  me  ; 
brown  bog,  all  pitted  and  broken  into  heathy  remnants 
and  bare  abrupt  wide  holes,  four  or  five  feet  deep,  mostly 
dry  at  present ;  a  flat  wilderness  of  broken  bog,  of  quag- 
mire not  to  be  trusted  (probably  wetter  in  old  days  there, 
and  wet  still  in  rainy  seasons).  Clearly  a  good  place  for 
Camcronian  preaching,  and  dangerously  difficult  for  Cla- 
verse  and  horse  soldiery  if  the  suffering  remnant  had  a  few 
old  muskets  among  them  !  Scott's  novels  had  given  the 
Clavcrse  skirmish  here,  which  all  Scotland  knew  of  al- 
ready, a  double  interest  in  those  days.  I  know  not  that 
we  talked  much  of  this  ;  but  we  did  of  many  things,  per- 
haps more  confidentially  than  ever  before.  A  colloquy  the 
sum  of  which  is  still  mournfully  beautiful  to  me,  though 


EDWARD    IRVING.  141 

the  details  are  cjone.  I  remember  us  sitting  on  the  brow 
of  a  peat-hag,  the  sun  shining,  our  own  voices  the  one 
sound.  Far,  far  away  to  the  westward  over  our  brown 
horizon,  towered  up  white  and  visible  at  the  many  miles 
of  distance  a  high  irregular  pyramid.  "  Ailsa  Craig," 
we  at  once  guessed,  and  thought  of  the  seas  and  oceans 
over  yonder.  But  we  did  not  long  dwell  on  that.  We 
seem  to  have  seen  no  human  creature  after  French  (though 
of  course  our  very  road  would  have  to  be  enquired  after)  ; 
to  have  had  no  bother  and  no  need  of  human  assistance 
or  society,  not  even  of  refection,  French's  breakfast  per- 
fectly sufficing  us.  The  talk  had  grown  ever  friendlier, 
more  interesting.  At  length  the  declining  sun  said 
plainly,  you  must  part.  We  sauntered  slowly  into  the 
Glasgow-Muirkirk  highway.  Masons  were  building  at  a 
wayside  cottage  near  by,  or  were  packing  up  on  ceasing 
for  the  day.  We  leant  our  backs  to  a  dry  stone  fence 
("  stone  dike,"  dry  stone  wall,  very  common  in  that  coun- 
try), and  looking  into  the  western  radiance,  continued  in 
talk  yet  a  while,  loth  both  of  us  to  go.  It  was  just  here, 
as  the  sun  was  sinking,  Irving  actually  drew  from  me  by 
degrees,  in  the  softest  manner,  the  confession  that  I  did 
not  think  as  he  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  that  it  was 
vain  for  me  to  expect  I  ever  could  or  should.  This,  if 
this  was  so,  he  had  pre-engaged  to  take  well  of  me,  like  an 
elder  brother,  if  I  would  be  frank  with  him.  And  right  loy- 
ally he  did  so,  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  we  needed  no  con- 
cealments on  that  head,  which  was  really  a  step  gained. 

The  sun  was  about  setting  when  we  turned  away  each 
on  his  own  path.     Irving  would  have  had  a  good  space 


142  EDWARD    IRVING. 

further  to  go  than  I  (as  now  occurs  to  mc),  perhaps  fifteen 
or  seventeen  miles,  and  would  not  be  in  Kent  Street  till 
towards  midnight.  But  he  feared  no  amount  of  walking, 
enjoyed  it  rather,  as  did  I  in  those  young  years,  I  felt 
sad,  but  affectionate  and  good,  in  my  clean,  utterly  quiet 
little  inn  at  Muirkirk,  which,  and  my  feelings  in  it,  I  still 
well  remember.  An  innocent  little  Glasgow  youth  (young 
bagman  on  his  first  journey,  I  supposed)  had  talked  awhile 
with  me  in  the  otherwise  solitary  little  sitting-room.  At 
parting  he  shook  hands,  and  with  something  of  sorrow  in 
his  tone  said,  "  Good  night,  I  shall  not  see  you  again." 
A  unique  experience  of  mine  in  inns. 

I  was  off  next  morning  by  four  o'clock,  Muirkirk,  ex- 
cept possibly  its  pillar  of  furnace  smoke,  all  sleeping 
round  me,  concerning  which,  I  remembered  in  the  silence 
something  I  had  heard  from  my  father  in  regard  to  this 
famed  Iron  village  (famed  long  before,  but  still  rural,  nat- 
ural, not  all  in  a  roaring  state,  which  as  I  imagine,  it  is 
now).  This  is  my  father's  picture  of  an  incident  he  had 
got  to  know  and  never  could  forget.  On  the  platform  of 
one  of  the  furnaces  a  solitary  man  (stoker  if  they  call  him 
so)  was  industriously  minding  his  business,  now  throwing 
in  new  fuel  and  ore,  now  poking  the  white-hot  molten 
mass  that  was  already  in.  A  poor  old  maniac  woman 
silently  joined  him  and  looked,  whom  also  he  was  used  to 
and  did  not  mind.  But  after  a  little,  his  back  being  to- 
wards the  furnace  mouth,  he  heard  a  strange  thump  or 
cracking  puff";  and  turning  suddenly,  the  poor  old  maniac 
woman  was  not  there,  and  on  advancing  to  the  furnace- 
edge  he  saw  the  figure  of  her  red-hot,  semi-transparent, 


EDWARD    IRVING.  143 

floating  as  ashes  on  the  fearful  element  for  some  mo- 
ments !  This  had  printed  itself  on  my  father's  brain  ; 
twice  perhaps  I  had  heard  it  from  him,  which  was  rare, 
nor  will  it  ever  leave  my  brain  either. 

That  day  was  full  of  mournful  interest  to  me  in  the 
waste  moors,  there  in  bonny  Nithsdale  (my  first  sight  of 
it)  in  the  bright  but  palish,  almost  pathetic  sunshine  and 
utter  loneliness.  At  eight  P.M.  I  got  well  to  Dumfries, 
the  longest  walk  I  ever  made,  fifty- four  miles  in  one  day. 

Irving's  visits  to  Annandale,  one  or  two  every  sum- 
mer, while  I  spent  summers  (for  cheapness  sake  and 
health's  sake)  in  solitude  at  my  father's  there,  were  the 
sabbath  times  of  the  season  to  me  ;  by  far  the  beautifullest 
days,  or  rather  the  only  beautiful  I  had  !  Unwearied 
kindness,  all  that  tenderest  anxious  affection  could  do, 
was  always  mine  from  my  incomparable  mother,  from  my 
dear  brothers,  little  clever  active  sisters,  and  from  every- 
one, brave  father  in  his  tacit  grim  way  not  at  all  excepted. 
There  was  good  talk  also  ;  with  mother  at  evening  tea, 
often  on  theology  (where  I  did  at  length  contrive,  by 
judicious  endeavour,  to  speak  piously  and  agreeably  to 
one  so  pious,  zvitJioiit  unveracity  on  my  part).  Nay  it 
was  a  kind  of  interesting  exercise  to  wind  softly  out  of 
those  anxious  affectionate  cavils  of  her  dear  heart  on  such 
occasions,  and  get  real  sympathy,  real  assent  under  bor- 
rowed forms.  Oh,  her  patience  with  me  !  oh,  her  never- 
tiring  love  !  Blessed  be  "  poverty"  which  was  never  in- 
digence in  any  form,  and  which  has  made  all  that  tenfold 
more  dear  and  sacred  to  me  !  With  my  two  eldest 
brothers  also,  Alick  and  John,  who  were  full  of  ingenuous 


144  EDWARD   IRVING. 

curiosity,  and  had  (especially  John)  abundant  intellect, 
there  was  nice  talking  as  we  roamed  about  the  fields  in 
gloaming  time  after  their  work  was  done  ;  and  I  recollect 
noticino-  (though  probably  it  happened  various  times)  that 
little  Jean  ("  Craw  "  as  we  called  her,  she  alone  of  us  not 
bein^T  blond  but  blackhaired)  one  of  the  cleverest  children 
I  ever  saw  (then  possibly  about  six  or  seven)  had  joined 
us  for  her  private  behoof,  and  was  assiduously  trotting  at 
my  knee,  cheek,  eyes,  and  ear  assiduously  turned  up  to 
me  !  Good  little  soul  !  I  thought  it  and  think  it  very 
pretty  of  her.  She  alone  of  them  had  nothing  to  do  with 
milking  ;  I  suppose  her  charge  would  probably  be  ducks 
or  poultry,  all  safe  to  bed  now,  and  was  turning  her  bit 
of  leisure  to  this  account  instead  of  another.  She  was 
hardly  longer  than  my  leg  by  the  whole  head  and  neck. 
There  was  a  younger  sister  (Jenny)  who  is  now  in  Canada, 
of  far  inferior  speculative  intellect  to  Jean,  but  who  has 
proved  to  have  (we  used  to  think),  superior  housekeeping 
faculties  to  hers.  The  same  may  be  said  of  Mary  the 
next  elder  to  Jean.  Both  these,  especially  Jenny,  got 
husbands,  and  have  dexterously  and  loyally  made  the 
most  of  them  and  their  families  and  households.  Hen- 
ning,  of  Hamilton,  Canada  West  ;  Austin,  of  the  Gill, 
Annan,  are  now  the  names  of  these  two.  Jean  is  Mrs. 
Aitken,  of  Dumfries,  still  a  clever,  speculative,  ardent, 
affectionate  and  discerning  woman,  but  much  zersplittcrt 
by  the  cares  of  life  ;  zcrsplittert ;  steadily  denied  acumi- 
nation  or  definite  consistency  and  direction  to  a  point ;  a 
"  tragedy  "  often  repeated  in  this  poor  world,  the  more 
the  pity  for  the  world  too  ! 


EDWARD   IRVING.  .  145 

All  this  was  something,  but  in  all  this  I  gave  more 
than  I  got,  and  it  left  a  sense  of  isolation,  of  sadness  ;  as 
the  rest  of  my  imprisoned  life  all  with  emphasis  did.  I 
kept  daily  studious,  reading  diligently  what  few  books 
I  could  get,  learning  what  was  possible,  German  etc. 
Sometimes  Dr.  Brewster  turned  me  to  account  (on  most 
frugal  terms  always)  in  wretched  little  translations,  com- 
pilations, which  were  very  welcome  too,  though  never 
other  than  dreary.  Life  was  all  dreary,  "eerie"  (Scot- 
tice),  tinted  with  the  hues  of  imprisonment  and  impossibil- 
ity ;  hope  practically  not  there,  only  obstinacy,  and  a  grim 
steadfastness  to  strive  without  hope  as  with.  To  all  which 
Irving's  advent  was  the  pleasant  (temporary)  contradiction 
and  reversal,  like  sunrising  to  night,  or  impenetrable  fog, 
and  its  spectralities  !  The  time  of  his  coming,  the  how 
and  when  of  his  movements  and  possibilities,  were  always 
known  to  me  beforehand.  On  the  set  day  I  started  forth 
better  dressed  than  usual,  strode  along  for  Annan  which 
lay  pleasantly  in  sight  all  the  way  (seven  miles  or  more 
from  Mainhill).  In  the  woods  of  Mount  Annan  I  would 
probably  meet  Irving  strolling  towards  me ;  and  then 
what  a  talk  for  the  three  miles  down  that  bonny  river's 
bank,  no  sound  but  our  own  voices  amid  the  lullaby  of 
waters  and  the  twittering  of  birds  !  We  were  sure  to 
have  several  such  walks,  whether  the  first  day  or  not,  and 
I  remember  none  so  well  as  some  (chiefly  <?;/^  which  is  not 
otherwise  of  moment)  in  that  fine  locality. 

I  generally  stayed  at  least  one  night,  on  several  occa- 
sions two  or  even  more,  and  I  remember  no  visits  with  as 
pure  and  calm  a  pleasure.     Annan  was  then  at  its  culmi- 

lO 


146  EDWARD    IRVING. 

nating  point,  a  fine,  bright,  self-confident  little  town  (gone 
now  to  dimness,  to  decay,  and  almost  grass  on  its  streets 
b}-  railway  transit).  Bits  of  travelling  notabilities  were 
sometimes  to  be  found  alighted  there.  Edinburgh  peo- 
ple, Liverpool  people,  with  whom  it  was  interesting  for 
the  recluse  party  to  "  measure  minds  "  for  a  little,  and  be 
on  your  best  behaviour,  both  as  to  matter  and  to  manner. 
Musical  Thomson  (memorable,  more  so  than  venerable, 
as  the  publisher  of  Burns's  songs)  him  I  saw  one  evening, 
sitting  in  the  reading-room,  a  clean-brushed,  common- 
place old  gentleman  in  scratch  wig,  whom  we  spoke  a 
few  words  to  and  took  a  good  look  of.  Two  young  Liv- 
erpool brothers,  Nelson  their  name,  scholars  just  out  of 
Oxford,  were  on  visit  one  time  in  the  Irving  circle,  spe- 
cially at  Provost  Dixon's,  Irving's  brother-in-law's.  These 
were  very  interesting  to  me  night  after  night  ;  handsome, 
intelligent,  polite  young  men,  and  the  first  of  their  species 
I  had  seen.  Di.xon's  on  other  occasions  was  usually  my 
lodging,  and  Irving's  along  with  me,  but  would  not  be  on 
this  (had  I  the  least  remembrance  on  that  head),  except 
that  I  seem  to  have  been  always  beautifully  well  lodged, 
and  that  Mrs.  Dixon,  Irving's  eldest  sister,  and  very  like 
him  inimis  the  bad  eye,  and  pins  a  fine  dimple  on  the 
bright  cheek,  was  always  beneficent  and  fine  to  me. 
Those  Nelsons  I  never  saw  again,  but  have  heard  once 
in  late  years  that  they  never  did  anything,  but  continued 
ornamentally  lounging  with  Liverpool  as  headquarters  ; 
which  seemed  to  be  something  like  the  prophecy  one 
might  have  gathered  from  those  young  aspects  in  the 
Annandale  visit,  had  one  been  intent  to   scan  them.     A 


EDWARD   IRVIjSTG.  147 

faded  Irish  dandy  once  picked  up  by  us  is  also  present  ; 
one  fine  clear  morning  Irving  and  I  found  this  figure 
lounging  about  languidly  on  the  streets.  Irving  made  up 
to  him,  invited  him  home  to  breakfast,  and  home  he  po- 
litely and  languidly  went  with  us  ;  "  bound  for  some  cat- 
tle fair,"  he  told  us,  Norwich  perhaps,  and  waiting  for 
some  coach  ;  a  parboiled,  insipid  "  agricultural  dandy  "  or 
old  fogie,  of  Hibernian  type  ;  wore  a  superfine  light  green 
frock,  snow-white  corduroys  ;  age  about  fifty,  face  col- 
ourless, crow-footed,  feebly  conceited  ;  proved  to  have 
nothing  in  him,  but  especially  nothing  bad,  and  we  had 
been  human  to  him.  Breakfast  this  morning,  I  remem- 
ber, was  at  Mrs.  Ferguson's  (Irving's  third  sister  ;  there 
were  four  in  all,  and  there  had  been  three  brothers,  but 
were  now  only  two,  the  youngest  and  the  eldest  of  the 
set).  Mrs.  F.'s  breakfast — tea — was  praised  by  the  Hi- 
bernian pilgrim  and  well  deserved  it. 

Irving  was  generally  happy  in  those  little  Annandale 
"  sunny  islets  "  of  his  year  ;  happier  perhaps  than  ever 
elsewhere.  All  was  quietly  flourishing  in  this  his  natal 
element ;  father's  house  neat  and  contented  ;  ditto  ditto, 
or  perhaps  blooming  out  a  little  farther,  those  of  his 
daughters,  all  nestled  close  to  it  in  place  withal  ;  a  very 
prettily  thriving  group  of  things  and  objects  in  their  lim-  * 
ited,  in  their  safe  seclusion  ;  and  Irving  was  silently  but 
visibly  in  the  hearts  of  all  the  flower  and  crowning  jewel 
of  it.  He  was  quiet,  cheerful,  genial.  Soul  unruffled 
and  clear  as  a  mirror,  honestly  loving  and  loved  all  round. 
His  time  too  was  so  short,  every  moment  valuable.  Alas, 
and  in  so   few  years   after,   ruin's  ploughshare  had    run 


148  •       EDWARD   IRVING. 

through  it  all,  and  it  was  prophesying  to  you,  "  Behold, 
in  a  little  while  the  last  trace  of  me  will  not  be  here,  and 
I  shall  have  vanished  tragically  and  fled  into  oblivion  and 
darkness  like  a  bright  dream."  As  is  long  since  mourn- 
fully the  fact,  when  one  passes,  pilgrim-like,  those  old 
houses  still  standing  there,  which  I  have  once  or  twice 
done. 

Our  dialogues  did  not  turn  very  much  or  long  on  per- 
sonal topics,  but  wandered  wide  over  the  world  and  its 
ways — new  men  of  the  travelling  conspicuous  sort  whom 
he  had  seen  in  Glasgow,  new  books  sometimes,  my  scope 
being  short  in  that  respect  ;  all  manner  of  interesting  ob- 
jects and  discoursings  ;  but  to  me  the  personal,  when 
they  did  come  in  course,  as  they  were  sure  to  do  now  and 
then  in  fit  proportion,  were  naturally  the  gratefullest  of 
all.  Irving's  voice  was  to  me  one  of  blessedness  and  new 
hope.  He  would  not  hear  of  my  gloomy  prognostica- 
tions ;  all  nonsense  that  I  never  should  get  out  of  these 
obstructions  and  impossibilities  ;  the  real  impossibility 
was  that  such  a  talent  etc.  should  not  cut  itself  clear  one 
day.  He  was  very  generous  to  everybody's  "  talent," 
especially  to  mine  ;  which  to  myself  was  balefully  dubious, 
nothing  but  bare  scaffold  poles,  weatherbeaten  corner- 
. pieces  of  perhaps  a  "  potential  talent,"  even  visible  to  me. 
His  predictions  about  what  I  was  to  be  flew  into  the  com- 
pletely incredible  ;  and  however  welcome,  I  could  only 
rank  them  as  devout  imaginations  and  quiz  them  away. 
"  You  will  sec  now,"  he  would  say,  "  one  day  we  two  will 
shake  hands  across  the  brook,  you  as  first  in  literature,  I 
as  first  in  divinity,  and  people  will  say,  '  Both  these  fel- 


EDWARD    IRVING.  1 49 

lows  are  from  Annandale.  Where  is  Annandale  ? '  " 
This  I  have  heard  him  say  more  than  once,  always  in  a 
laughing  way,  and  with  self-mockery  enough  to  save  it 
from  being  barrenly  vain.  He  was  very  sanguine,  I  much 
the  reverse  ;  and  had  his  consciousness  of  power,  and  his 
generous  ambitions  and  forecastings.  Never  ungenerous, 
never  ignoble  ;  only  an  enemy  could  have  called  him 
vain,  but  perhaps  an  enemy  could  or  at  least  would,  and 
occasionally  did.  His  pleasure  in  being  loved  by  others 
was  very  great,  and  this  if  you  looked  well  was  manifest 
in  him  when  the  case  offered  ;  never  more  or  worse  than 
this  in  any  case,  and  this  too  he  had  well  in  check  at  all 
times.  If  this  was  vanity,  then  he  might  by  some  be 
called  a  little  vain,  if  not  not.  To  trample  on  the  smallest 
mortal  or  be  tyrannous  even  towards  the  basest  of  caitiffs 
was  never  at  any  moment  Irving's  turn.  No  man  that  I 
have  known  had  a  sunnier  type  of  character,  or  so  little  of 
hatred  towards  any  man  or  thing.  On  the  whole,  less  of 
rage  in  him  than  I  ever  saw  combined  with  such  a  fund 
of  courage  and  conviction.  Noble  Irving !  he  was  the 
faithful  elder  brother  of  my  life  in  those  years  ;  generous, 
wise,  beneficent,  all  his  dealings  and  discoursings  with  me 
were.  Well  may  I  recollect  as  blessed  things  in  my  exis- 
tence those  Annan  and  other  visits,  and  feel  that  beyond 
all  other  men  he  was  helpful  to  me  when  I  most  needed 
help. 

Irving's  position  at  Glasgow,  I  could  dimly  perceive, 
was  not  without  its  embarrassments,  its  discouragements ; 
and  evidently  enough  it  was  nothing  like  the  ultimatum 
he  was  aiming  at,  in  the  road  to  which  I  suppose  he  saw 


I50  EDWARD   IRVING. 

the  obstructions  rather  multiplying  than  decreasing  or  di- 
minishing. Theological  Scotland  above  all  things  is  du- 
bious and  jealous  of  originality,  and  Irving's  tendency  to 
take  a  road  of  his  own  was  becoming  daily  more  indis- 
putable. He  must  have  been  severely  tried  in  the  sieve 
had  he  continued  in  Scotland.  Whether  that  might  not 
have  brought  him  out  clearer,  more  pure  and  victorious 
in  the  end,  must  remain  for  ever  a  question.  Much  suf- 
fering and  contradiction  it  would  have  cost  him,  mean 
enough  for  most  part,  and  possibly  with  loss  of  patience, 
with  mutiny  etc.,  for  ultimate  result,  but  one  may  now 
regret  that  the  experiment  was  never  to  be  made. 

Of  course  the  invitation  to  London  was  infinitely  wel- 
come to  him,  summing  up,  as  it  were,  all  of  good  that  had 
been  in  Glasgow  (for  it  was  the  rumours  and  reports  from 
Glasgow  people  that  had  awakened  Hatton  Garden  to  his 
worth),  and  promising  to  shoot  him  aloft  over  all  that  had 
been  obstructive  there  into  wider  new  elements.  The  ne- 
gotiations and  correspondings  had  all  passed  at  a  distance 
from  me,  but  I  recollect  well  our  final  practical  parting  on 
that  occasion.  A  dim  night,  November  or  December, 
between  nine  and  ten,  in  the  coffee-room  of  the  Black 
Bull  Hotel.  He  was  to  start  by  early  coach  to-morrow. 
Glad  I  was  bound  to  be,  and  in  a  sense  was,  but  very  sad 
I  could  not  help  being.  He  himself  looked  hopeful,  but 
was  agitated  with  anxieties  too,  doubtless  with  regrets  as 
well ;  more  clouded  with  agitation  than  I  had  ever  seen 
the  fine  habitual  solar  light  of  him  before.  I  was  the  last 
friend  he  had  to  take  farewell  of  He  showed  me  old  Sir 
Harry  Moncrieff's  testimonial  ;  a  Reverend  Presbyterian 


EDWARD   IRVING.  151 

Scotch  Baronet  of  venerable  quality  (the  last  of  his  kind), 
whom  I  knew  well  by  sight,  and  by  his  universal  character 
for  integrity,  honest  orthodoxy,  shrewdness,  and  veracity. 
Sir  Harry  testified  with  brevity,  in  stiff,  firm,  ancient 
hand,  several  important  things  on  Irving's  behalf ;  and 
ended  by  saying,  "  All  this  is  my  true  opinion,  and  meant 
to  be  understood  as  it  is  written."  At  which  we  had  our 
bit  of  approving  laugh,  and  thanks  to  Sir  Harry.  Irving 
did  not  laugh  that  night ;  laughter  was  not  the  mood  of 
either  of  us.  I  gave  him  as  road  companion  a  bundle  of 
the  best  cigars  (gift  of  Graham  to  me)  I  almost  ever  had. 
He  had  no  practice  of  smoking,  but  a  little  by  a  time,  and 
agreed  that  on  the  coach  roof,  where  he  was  to  ride  night 
and  day,  a  cigar  now  and  then  might  be  tried  with  ad- 
vantage. Months  afterwards  I  learnt  he  had  begun  by 
losing  every  cigar  of  them  ;  left  the  whole  bundle  lying 
on  the  seat  in  the  stall  of  the  coffee-room  ;  this  cigar 
gift  being  probably  our  last  transaction  there.  We  said 
farewell  ;  and  I  had  in  some  sense,  according  to  my 
worst  anticipations,  lost  my  friend's  society  (not  my  friend 
himself  ever),  from  that  time. 

For  a  long  while  I  saw  nothing  of  Irving  after  this. 
Heard  in  the  way  of  public  rumours  or  more  specific  re- 
port, chiefly  from  Graham  and  Hope  of  Glasgow,  how 
grandly  acceptable  he  had  been  at  Hatton  Garden,  and 
what  negotiating,  deliberating,  and  contriving  had  ensued 
in  respect  of  the  impediments  there  ("  preacher  ignorant 
of  Gaelic  ;  our  fundamental  law  requires  him  to  preach 
half  the  Sunday  in  that  language,"  etc.),  and  how  at 
length  all  these  were  got  over  or  tumbled  aside,  and  the 


152  EDWARD    IRVING. 

matter  settled  into  adjustment.  "  Irving,  our  preacher, 
talis  qualis,''  to  the  huge  contentment  of  his  congrega- 
tion and  all  onlookers,  of  which  latter  were  already  in 
London  a  select  class  ;  the  chief  religious  people  getting 
to  be  aware  that  an  altogether  uncommon  man  had  ar- 
rived here  to  speak  to  them. 

On  all  these  points,  and  generally  on  all  his  experiences 
in  London,  glad  enough  should  I  have  been  to  hear  from 
him  abundantly,  but  he  wrote  nothing  on  such  points, 
nor  in  fact  had  I  expected  anything  ;  and  the  truth  was, 
which  did  a  little  disappoint  me  at  the  time,  our  regular 
correspondence  had  here  suddenly  come  to  finis  /  I  was 
not  angry,  how  could  I  be  ?  I  made  no  solicitation  or  re- 
monstrance, nor  was  any  poor  pride  kindled  (I  think), 
except  strictly,  and  this  in  silence,  so  far  as  was  proper 
for  self-defence  ;  but  I  was  always  sorry  more  or  less,  and 
regretted  it  as  a  great  loss  I  had  by  ill-luck  undergone. 
Taken  from  me  by  ill-luck  !  but  then  had  it  not  been  given 
me  by  good  ditto  ?  Peace,  and  be  silent  !  In  the  first 
month  Irving,  I  doubt  not,  had  intended  much  correspon- 
dence with  me,  were  the  hurlyburly  done  ;  but  no  sooner 
was  it  so  in  some  measure,  than  his  flaming  popularity 
had  begun,  spreading,  mounting  without  limit,  and  in- 
stead of  business  hurlyburly,  there  was  whirlwind  of  confla- 
gration. 

Noble,  good  soul  !  In  his  last  weeks  of  life,  looking 
back  from  that  grim  shore  upon  the  safe  sunny  isles  and 
smiling  possibilities  now  for  ever  far  behind,  he  said  to 
Henry  Drummond,  "  I  should  have  kept  Thomas  Carlyle 
closer  to  me  ;  his  counsel,  blame,  or  praise,  was  always 


EDWARD   IRVING.  153 

faithful,  and  few  have  such  eyes."  These  words,  the  first 
part  of  them  ipsissima  verb  a  ^  I  know  to  have  been  verily 
his.  Must  not  the  most  blazing  indignation  (had  the  least 
vestige  of  such  been  ever  in  me  for  one  moment)  have 
died  almost  into  tears  at  the  sound  of  them  ?  Perfect  ab- 
solution there  had  long  been  without  enquiring  after  peni- 
tence. My  ever-generous,  loving,  and  noble  Irving  !  .  .  . 
If  in  a  gloomy  moment  I  had  fancied  that  my  friend 
was  lost  to  me  because  no  letters  came  from  him,  I  had 
shining  proof  to  the  contrary  very  soon.  It  was  in  these 
first  months  of  Hatton  Garden  and  its  imbroglio  of  affairs, 
that  he  did  a  most  signal  benefit  to  me  ;  got  me  ap- 
pointed tutor  and  intellectual  guide  and  guardian  to  the 
young  Charles  Buller,  and  his  boy  brother,  now  Sir 
Arthur,  and  an  elderly  ex-Indian  of  mark.  The  case  had 
its  comic  points  too,  seriously  important  as  it  was  to  me 
for  one.  Its  pleasant  real  history  is  briefly  this.  Irving's 
preaching  had  attracted  Mrs.  Strachey,  wife  of  a  well- 
known  Indian  official  of  Somersetshire  kindred,  then  an 
"examiner"  in  the  India  House,  and  a  man  of  real 
worth,  far  diverse  as  his  worth  and  ways  were  from  those 
of  his  beautiful,  enthusiastic,  and  still  youngish  wife.  A 
bright  creature  she,  given  wholly  (though  there  lay  silent 
in  her  a  great  deal  of  fine  childlike  mirth  and  of  innocent 
grace  and  gift)  to  things  sacred  and  serious,  emphatically 
what  the  Germans  call  a  scJione  Secle.  She  had  brought 
Irving  into  her  circle,  found  him  good  and  glorious  there, 
almost  more  than  in  the  pulpit  itself;  had  been  speaking 
of  him  to  her  elder  sister,  Mrs.  Buller  (a  Calcutta  fine  lady 
and  princess  of  the  kind  worshipped  there,  a  once  very 


154  EDWARD    IRVING. 

beautiful,  still  very  witty,  graceful,  airy,  and  ingenuously 
intelligent  woman  of  the  gossamer  kind),  and  had  natural- 
ly winded  up  with  "  Come  and  dine  with  us  ;  come  and 
see  this  uncommon  man."  Mrs.  Ikillcr  came,  saw  {I  dare 
say  with  much  suppressed  quizzing  and  wonder)  the 
uncommon  man  ;  took  to  him.  She  also  in  her  way 
recognised,  as  did  her  husband  too,  the  robust  practical 
common  sense  that  was  in  him  ;  and  after  a  few  meetings 
began  speaking  of  a  domestic  intricacy  there  was  with  a 
clever  but  too  mercurial  and  unmanageable  eldest  son  of 
hers,  whom  they  knew  not  what  to  do  with. 

Irving  took  sight  and  survey  of  this  dangerous  eldest 
lad,  Charles  Duller  junior,  namely — age  then  about  fifteen, 
honourably  done  with  Harrow  some  weeks  or  months  ago, 
still  too  young  for  college  on  his  own  footing,  and  very 
difficult  to  dispose  of.  Irving  perceived  that  though  per- 
fectly accomplished  in  w4iat  Harrow  could  give  him,  this 
hungry  and  highly  ingenious  youth  had  fed  hitherto  on 
Latin  and  Greek  husks,  totally  unsatisfying  to  his  huge 
appetite  ;  that  being  a  young  fellow  of  the  keenest  sense 
for  everything,  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous,  and 
full  of  airy  ingenuity  and  fun,  he  was  in  the  habit  in  quiet 
evenings  at  home  of  starting  theses  with  his  mother  in 
favour  of  Pierce  Egan  and  "  Boxiana,"  as  if  the  annals  of 
English  boxing  were  more  nutritive  to  an  existing  man 
than  those  of  the  Peloponnesian  war  etc.  Against  all 
which  etc.,  as  his  mother  vehemently  argued,  Charles 
would  stand  on  the  defensive,  with  such  swiftness  and  in- 
genuity of  fence,  that  frequently  the  matter  kindled  be- 
tween them  ;  and  both  being  of  hot  though  most  placable 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 55 

temper,  one  or  both  grew  loud  ;  and  the  old  gentleman, 
Charles  Buller  senior,  who  was  very  deaf,  striking  blindly 
in   at  this  point  would  embroil  the  whole  matter  into  a 
very  bad  condition  !     Irving's  recipe  after  some  consider- 
ation was,  "  Send  this  gifted,   unguided  youth  to  Edin- 
burgh  College.     I  know  a  young  man  there   who  could 
lead  him  into  richer  spiritual  pastures  and  take  effective 
charge    of  him."     Buller    thereupon    was   sent,    and    his 
brother  Arthur  with  him  ;  boarded  with  a  good  old  Dr. 
Fleming  (in  George  Square)  then  a  clergyman  of  mark  : 
and  I  (on   a  salary   of  200/.   a  year)   duly  took    charge. 
This  was  a  most  important  thing  to  me  in  the  economies 
and  practical  departments  of  my  life,  and  I  owe  it  wholly 
to  Irving.      On  this  point  I  always  should  remember  he 
did  "  write  "  copiously  enough  to  Dr.  Fleming  and  other 
parties,  and  stood  up  in  a  gallant  and  grandiloquent  way 
for  every  claim  and  right  of  his  "young  literary  friend," 
who  had  nothing  to  do  but  wait  silent  while  everything 
was  being  adjusted  completely  to  his  wish  or  beyond  it. 

From  the  first  I  found  my  Charles  a  most  manageable, 
intelligent,  cheery,  and  altogether  welcome  and  intelligent 
phenomenon  ;  quite  a  bit  of  sunshine  in  my  dreary  Edin- 
burgh element.  I  was  in  waiting  for  his  brother  and  him 
when  they  landed  at  Fleming's.  We  set  instantly  out  on 
a  walk,  round  by  the  foot  of  Salisbury  Crags,  up  from 
Holyrood,  by  the  Castle  and  Law  Courts,  home  again  to 
George  Square  ;  and  really  I  recollect  few  more  pleasant 
walks  in  my  life  !  So  all-intelligent,  seizing  everything 
you  said  to  him  with  such  a  recognition  ;  so  loyal-hearted, 
chivalrous,  guileless,  so  delighted  (evidently)  with  me,  as 


156  EDWARD   IRVING. 

I  was  with  him.  Arthur,  two  years  younger,  kept  mainly 
silent,  being  slightly  deaf  too  ;  but  I  could  perceive  that 
he  also  was  a  fine  little  fellow,  honest,  intelligent,  and 
kind,  and  that  apparently  I  had  been  much  in  luck  in  this 
didactic  adventure,  which  proved  abundantly  the  fact. 
The  two  youths  took  to  me  with  unhesitating  liking,  and 
I  to  them  ;  and  we  never  had  anything  of  quarrel  or  even 
of  weariness  and  dreariness  between  us  ;  such  "  teaching  " 
as  I  never  did  in  any  sphere  before  or  since  !  Charles,  by 
his  qualities,  his  ingenuous  curiosities,  his  brilliancy  of 
faculty  and  character,  was  actually  an  entertainment  to 
me  rather  than  a  labour.  If  we  walked  together,  which  I 
remember  sometimes  happening,  he  was  the  best  com- 
pany I  could  find  in  Edinburgh.  I  had  entered  him  of 
Dunbar's,  in  third  Greek  class  at  college.  In  Greek  and 
Latin,  in  the  former  in  every  respect,  he  was  far  my  su- 
perior ;  and  I  had  to  prepare  my  lessons  by  way  of  keep- 
ing him  to  his  work  at  Dunbar's.  Keeping  him  to  work 
was  my  one  difficulty,  if  there  was  one,  and  my  essential 
function.  I  tried  to  guide  him  into  reading,  into  solid  en- 
quiry and  reflection.  He  got  some  mathematics  from 
me,  and  might  have  had  more.  He  got  in  brief  what  ex- 
pansion into  such  wider  fields  of  intellect  and  more  man- 
ful modes  of  thinking  and  working,  as  my  poor  possibili- 
ties could  yield  him  ;  and  was  always  generously  grateful 
to  me  afterwards.  Friends  of  mine  in  a  fine  frank  way, 
beyond  what  I  could  be  thought  to  merit,  he,  Arthur, 
and  all  the  family  continued  till  death  parted  us. 

This  of  the  Bullcrs  was  the  product  for  me  of  Irving's 
first  months  in  London,  begun  and  got  under  way  in  the 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 57 

spring  and  summer  of  1822,  which  followed  our  winter 
parting  in  the  Black  Bull  Inn.  I  was  already  getting  my 
head  a  little  up  ;  translating  "  Legendre's  Geometry"  for 
Brewster  ;  my  outlook  somewhat  cheerfuller.  I  still  re- 
member a  happy  forenoon  (Sunday,  I  fear)  in  which  I  did 
a  Fifth  Book  (or  complete  "  doctrine  of  proportion  ")  for 
that  work,  complete  really  and  lucid,  and  yet  one  of  the 
briefest  ever  known.  It  was  begun  and  done  that  fore- 
noon, and  I  have  (except  correcting  the  press  next  week) 
never  seen  it  since  ;  but  still  feel  as  if  it  were  right  enough 
and  felicitous  in  its  kind  !  I  got  only  50/.  for  my  entire 
trouble  in  that  "  Legendre,"  and  had  already  ceased  to 
be  in  the  least  proud  of  vtatJicmatical  prowess  ;  but  it 
was  an  honest  job  of  work  honestly  done,  though  perhaps 
for  bread  and  water  wages,  such  an  improvement  upon 
wages  producing  (in  Jean  Paul's  phrase)  only  water  with- 
out the  bread  !  Towards  autumn  the  Buller  family  fol- 
lowed to  Edinburgh,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  with  a  third  very 
small  son,  Reginald,  who  was  a  curious,  gesticulating, 
pen-drawing,  etc.  little  creature,  not  to  be  under  my 
charge,  but  who  generally  dined  with  me  at  luncheon 
time,  and  who  afterwards  turned  out  a  lazy,  hebetated 
fellow,  and  is  now  parson  of  Troston,  a  fat  living  in  Suf- 
folk. These  English  or  Anglo-Indiah  gentlefolks  were 
all  a  new  species  to  me,  sufficiently  exotic  in  aspect ;  but 
we  recognised  each  other's  quality  more  and  more,  and 
did  very  well  together.  They  had  a  house  in  India 
Street,  saw  a  great  deal  of  company  (of  the  ex-Indian  ac- 
cidental English  gentleman,  and  native  or  touring  lion 
genus  for  which  Mrs.  B.  had  a  lively  appetite).     I  still 


158  EDWARD   IRVING. 

lodged  in  my  old  half-rural  rooms,  3  Moray  Place,  Pilrig 
Street  ;  attended  my  two  pupils  during  the  day  hours 
(lunching  with  "Regie"  by  way  of  dinner),  and  rather 
seldom,  yet  to  my  own  taste  amply  often  enough,  was  of 
the  "  state  dinners  ;  "  brut  walked  home  to  my  books  and 
to  my  brother  John,  who  was  now  lodging  with  me  and 
attending  college.  Except  for  dyspepsia  I  could  have 
been  extremely  content,  but  that  did  dismally  forbid  me 
now  and  afterwards  !  Irving  and  other  friends  always 
treated  the  "  ill-health "  item  as  a  light  matter  which 
would  soon  vanish  from  the  account ;  but  I  had  a  presen- 
timent that  it  would  stay  there,  and  be  the  Old  Man  of 
the  Sea  to  me  through  life, 'as  it  has  too  tragically  done, 
and  will  do  to  the  end.  Woe  on  it,  and  not  for  my  own 
poor  sake  alone  ;  and  yet  perhaps  a  benefit  has  been  in 
it,  priceless  though  hideously  painful ! 

Of  Irving  in  these  two  years  I  recollect  almost  noth- 
ing personal,  though  all  round  I  heard  a  great  deal  of 
him  ;  and  he  must  have  been  in  my  company  at  least 
once  prior  to  the  advent  of  the  elder  Bullers,  and  been 
giving  me  counsel  and  light  on  the  matter  ;  for  I  recollect 
his  telling  me  of  Mrs.  Buller  (having  no  doubt  portrayed 
Mr.  Buller  to  me  in  acceptable  and  clearly  intelligible 
lineaments)  that  she — she  too,  was  a  worthy,  honourable, 
and  quick-sighted  lady,  but  not  without  fine-ladyisms, 
crotchets,  caprices, — "somewhat  like  Mrs.  Welsh,'  you 
can  fancy,  but  good  too,  like  her."  Ah  me  !  this  I  per- 
fectly remember,  this  and  nothing  more,  of  those  Irving 

■  Mrs.  Welsh  of  Haddington,  mother  of   Jane  Welsh,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Carlyle. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 59 

intercourses  ;  and  it  is  a  memento  to  me  of  a  most  im- 
portant province  in  my  poor  world  at  that  time  !  I  was 
in  constant  correspondence  (weekly  or  oftener  sending 
books  etc.  etc.)  with  Haddington,  and  heard  often  of 
Irving,  and  of  things  far  more  interesting  to  me  from 
that  quarter.  Gone  silent,  closed  for  ever — so  sad,  so 
strange  it  all  is  now  !  Irving,  I  think,  had  paid  a  visit 
there,  and  had  certainly  sent  letters  ;  by  the  above  token 
I  too  must  have  seen  him  at  least  once.  All  this  was  in 
his  first  London  year,  or  half-year,  some  months  before 
his  "popularity"  had  yet  taken  yzr,?,  and  made  him  for 
a  time  the  property  of  all  the  world  rather  than  of  his 
friends. 

The  news  of  this  latter  event,  which  came  in  vague, 
vast,  fitful,  and  decidedly  f/i/ig-inons  forms,  was  not  quite 
welcome  to  any  of  us,  perhaps  in  secret  not  welcome  at 
all.  People  have  their  envies,  their  pitiful  self-compari- 
sons, and  feel  obliged  sometimes  to  profess  from  the  teeth 
outwards  more  "joy"  than  they  really  have;  not  an 
agreeable  duty  or  quasi-duty  laid  on  one.  For  myself 
I  can  say  that  there  was  first  something  of  real  joy  ; 
("success  to  the  worthy  of  success,")  second,  some- 
thing, probably  not  yet  much,  of  honest  question  for  his 
sake,  "  Can  he  guide  it  in  that  huge  element,  as  e.o^. 
Chalmers  has  done  in  this  smaller  one?"  and  third,  a 
noticeable  quantity  of  Quid  tiii  interest?  What  business 
hast  thou  with  it,  poor,  suffering,  handcuffed  wretch  ? 
To  me  these  great  doings  in  Hatton  Garden  came  only 
on  wings  of  rumour,  the  exact  nature  of  them  uncertain. 
To  me  for  many  months  back  Irving  had  fallen  totally 


l5o  EDWARD   IRVING. 

silent,  and  this  seemed  a  seal  to  its  being  a  permanent 
silence.  I  had  been  growing  steadily  worse  in  health  too, 
and  was  in  habitual  wretchedness,  ready  to  say,  "  Well, 
whoever  is  happy  and  gaining  victory,  thou  art  and 
art  like  to  be  very  miserable,  and  to  gain  none  at  all." 
These  were,  so  far  as  I  can  now  read,  honestly  my  feel- 
in""s  on  the  matter.  My  love  to  Irving,  now  that  Hook 
at  it  across  those  temporary  vapours,  had  not  abated, 
never  did  abate  :  but  he  seemed  for  the  present  flown 
(or  mounted  if  that  was  it)  far  away  from  me,  and  I  could 
only  say  to  myself,  "  Well,  well  then,  so  it  must  be." 

One  heard  too,  often  enough,  that  in  Irving  there  was 
visible  a  certain  joyancy  and  frankness  of  triumph  ;  that 
he  took  things  on  the  high  key  and  nothing  doubting ; 
and  foolish  stories  circulated  about  his  lofty  sayings,  sub- 
limities of  manner,  and  the  like  :  something  of  which  I 
could  believe  (and  yet  kindly  interpret  too) ;  all  which 
might  have  been,  though  it  scarcely  was,  some  consola- 
tion for  our  present  silence  towards  one  another.  For 
what  could  I  have  said  in  the  circumstances  that  would 
have  been  on  both  sides  agreeable  and  profitable  ? 

It  was  not  till  late  in  autumn  1823,  nearly  two  years 
after  our  parting  in  the  Black  Bull  Inn,  that  I  fairly,  and 
to  a  still  memorable  measure,  saw  Irvinjj  acrain.  He  was 
on  his  marriage  jaunt,  Miss  Martin  of  Kirkcaldy  now  be- 
come his  life-partner  ;  off  on  a  tour  to  the  Highlands  ; 
and  the  generous  soul  had  determined  to  pass  near  Kin- 
naird  (right  bank  of  Tay,  a  mile  below  the  junction  of 
Tummel  and  Tay)  where  I  then  was  with  the  BuUcrs,  and 
pick  me   up  to   accompany  as  far  as   I  would.     I   forget 


EDWARD    IRVING.  l6l 

where  or  how  our  meeting  was  (at  Dunkeld  probably). 
I  seem  to  have  lodged  with  them  two  nights  in  successive 
inns,  and  certainly  parted  from  them  at  Taymouth,  Sun- 
day afternoon,  where  my  horse  by  some  means  must  have 
been  waiting  for  me.  I  remember  baiting  him  '  at  Aber- 
feldy,  and  to  have  sate  in  a  kindly  and  polite  yet  very 
huggermugger  cottage,  among  good  peasant  kirk-people, 
refreshing  themselves,  returning  home  from  sermon  ;  sate 
for  perhaps  some  two  hours,  till  poor  Dolph  got  rested 
and  refected  like  his  fellow-creatures  there.  I  even  re- 
member something  like  a  fraction  of  scrag  of  mutton  and 
potatoes  eaten  by  myself — in  strange  contrast,  had  I 
thought  of  that,  to  Irving's  nearly  simultaneous  dinner 
which  would  be  with  my  Lord  at  Taymouth  Castle.  After 
Aberfeldy  cottage  the  curtain  falls. 

Irving,  on  this  his  wedding  jaunt,  seemed  superlatively- 
happy,  as  was  natural  to  the  occasion,  or  more  than  nat- 
ural, as  if  at  the  top  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and  in  a  sense 
(a  generous  sense  it  must  be  owned,  and  not  a  tyrannous 
in  any  measure)  striking  the  stars  with  his  sublime  head. 
Mrs.  I.  was  demure  and  quiet,  though  doubtless  not  less 
happy  at  heart,  really  comely  in  her  behaviour.  In  the 
least  beautiful  she  never  could  be  ;  but  Irving  had  loyally 
taken  her  as  the  consummate  flower  of  all  his  victory  in 
the  world— poor  good  tragic  woman— better  probably 
than  the  fortune  she  had  after  all. 

My  friend  was  kind  to  me  as  possible,  and  bore  with 

>  Excellent  cob  or  pony  Dolph,  i.e.  Bardolph,  bought  for  me  at  Lilliesleaf 
fair  by  my  dear  brother  Alick,  and  which  I  had  ridden  iato  the  Highlands  for 

health. 

II 


l52  EDWARD    IRVING. 

my  gloomy  humours  (for  I  was  ill  and  miserable  to  a  de- 
<Tree),  nay  perhaps  as  foil  to  the  radiancy  of  his  own  sun- 
shine he  almost  enjoyed  them.  I  remember  jovial  bursts 
of  lau^-hter  from  him  at  my  surly  sarcastic  and  dyspeptic 
utterances.  "  Doesn't  this  subdue  you,  Carlyle  ?  "  said  he 
somewhat  solemnly:  we  were  all  three  standing  at  the 
Falls  of  Abcrfeldy  (amid  the  "  Birks  "  of  ditto,  and  mem- 
ories of  song)  silent  in  the  October  dusk,  perhaps  with 
moon  rising — our  ten  miles  to  Taymouth  still  ahead— 
"  Doesn't  this  subdue  you?"  "Subdue  me?  I  should 
hope  not.  I  have  quite  other  things  to  front  with  defiance 
in  this  world  than  a  gush  of  bog-water  tumbling  over  crags 
as  here  !  "  which  produced  a  joyous  and  really  kind  laugh 
from  him  as  sole  answer.  He  had  much  to  tell  me  of 
London,  of  its  fine  literary  possibilities  for  a  man,  of  its 
literary  stars,  whom  he  had  seen  or  knew  of,  Coleridge  in 
particular,  who  was  in  the  former  category,  a  marvellous 
sage  and  man  ;  Hazlitt,  who  was  in  the  latter,  a  fine  talent 
too,  but  tendmg  towards  scamphood  ;  was  at  the  FontJiill 
Abbey  sale  the  other  week,  "  hired  to  attend  as  a  white 
bonnet  there,"  said  he  with  a  laugh.  White  bonnet  in- 
tensely vernacular,  is  the  Annandale  name  for  a  false  bid- 
der merely  appointed  to  raise  prices,  works  so  for  his  five 
shillings  at  some  poor  little  Annandale  roup'  of  standing 
crop  or  hypothecate  cottage  furniture,  and  the  contrast 
and  yet  kinship  between  these  little  things  and  the  Font- 
hill  great  one  was  ludicrous  enough.  He  would  not  hear 
of  ill-health  being  any  hindrance  to  me  ;  he  had  himself 
no  experience  in  that  sad  province.      All  seemed  possible 

'  Ruf,  or  vocal  sale. 


EDWARD    IRVING.  163 

to  him,  all  was  joyful  and  running  upon  wheels.  He  had 
suffered  much  angry  criticism  in  his  late  triumphs  (on  his 
"  Orations"  quite  lately),  but  seemed  to  accept  it  all  with 
jocund  mockery,  as  something  harmless  and  beneath  him. 
Wilson  in  "  Blackwood"  had  been  very  scornful  and 
done  his  bitterly  enough  disobliging  best.  Nevertheless 
Irving  now  advising  with  me  about  some  detail  of  our 
motions,  or  of  my  own,  and  finding  I  still  demurred  to  it, 
said  with  true  radiancy  of  look,  "  Come  now,  you  know  1 
am  the  judicious  Hooker^'  which  was  considered  one  of 
Wilson's  cruehest  hits  in  that  Blackwood  article.  To 
myself  I  remember  his  answering,  in  return  evidently  for 
some  criticism  of  my  own  on  the  orations  which  was  not 
so  laudatory  as  required,  but  of  which  I  recollect  nothing 
farther,  "Well,  Carlyle,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  all 
that  ;  it  gives  me  the  opinion  of  another  mind  on  the 
thing  ;  "  which  at  least  beyond  any  doubt  it  did.  He  was 
in  high  sunny  humour,  good  Irving.  There  was  no  trace 
of  anger  left  in  him,  he  was  jovial,  riant,  jocose  rather  than 
serious,  throughout,  which  was  a  new  phasis  to  me.  And 
furthermore  in  the  serious  vein  itself  there  was  oftenest 
something  oi  falsetto  noticeable  (as  in  that  of  the  water- 
fall "  subduing  "  one),  generally  speaking  a  new  height  of 
self  consciousness  not  yet  sure  of  the  manner  and  carriage 
that  was  suitablest  for  it.  He  affected  to  feel  his  popu- 
larity too  great  and  burdensome  ;  spoke  much  about  a 
Mrs.  Basil  Montague  ;  elderly,  sage,  lofty,  whom  we  got 
to  know  afterwards,  and  to  call  by  his  name  for  her,  "  the 
noble  lady  ;  "  who  had  saved  him  greatly  from  the  dash- 
ing floods  of  that  tumultuous  and  unstable  element,  hid- 


1 64  EDWARD   IRVING. 

den  him  away  from  it  once  and  again  ;  done  kind  minis- 
trations, spread  sofas  for  him,  and  taught  him  "  to  rest." 
The  last  thing  I  recollect  of  him  was  on  our  coming  out 
from  Taymouth  Kirk  (kirk,  congregation,  minister,  utterly 
erased  from  me),  how  in  coming  down  the  broadish  little 
street,  he  pulled  off  his  big  broad  hat,  and  walked,  looking' 
mostly  to  the  sky,  with  his  fleece  of  copious  coal-black 
hair  flowing  in  the  wind,  and  in  some  spittings  of  rain  that 
wej'e  beginning  ;  how  thereupon  in  a  minute  or  two  a 
livery  servant  ran  up,  *'  Please  sir,  aren't  you  the  Rev. 
Edward  Irving?"  "Yes."  "Then  my  Lord  Bread- 
albane  begs  you  to  stop  for  him  one  moment."  Where- 
upon &y^\\.  fiunkcy .  Irving  turning  to  us  with  what  look 
of  sorrow  he  could,  and  "  Again  found  out  !  "  upon  which 
the  old  Lord  came  up,'  and  civilly  invited  him  to  dinner. 
Him  and  party,  I  suppose  ;  but  to  me  there  was  no  temp- 
tation, or  on  those  terms  less  than  none.  So  I  had  Bar- 
dolph  saddled  and  rode  for  Aberfeldy  as  above  said  ;  home, 
sunk  in  manifold  murky  reflections  now  lost  to  me  ;  and 
of  which  only  the  fewest  and  friendliest  were  comfortably 
fit  for  uttering  to  the  Bullers  next  day.  I  saw  no  more 
of  Irving  for  this  time.  But  he  had  been  at  Haddington 
too,  was  perhaps  again  corresponding  a  little  there,  and  I 
heard  occasionally  of  him  in  the  beautiful  bright  and 
kindly  quizzing  style  that  was  natural  there. 

I  was  myself  writing  "  Schiller"  in  those  months;  a 

task  Irving  had  encouraged  me  in  and  prepared  the  way 

for,  in  the  "  London  Magazine."     Three  successive  parts 

there  were,  I  know  not  how  far  advanced,  at  this  period  ; 

*  Father  of  the  last,  or  later,  Free  Kirk  one,  whom  I  have  sometimes  seen. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  16$ 

knew  only  that  I  was  nightly  working  at  the  thing  in  a 
serious  sad  and  totally  solitary  way.  My  two  rooms 
were  in  the  old  "Mansion"  of  Kinnaird,  some  three  or 
four  hundred  yards  from  the  new,  and  on  a  lower  level, 
over-shadowed  with  wood.  Thither  I  always  retired 
directly  after  tea,  and  for  most  part  had  the  edifice  all  to 
myself;  good  candles,  good  wood  fire,  place  dry  enough, 
tolerably  clean,  and  such  silence  and  total  absence  of 
company,  good  or  bad,  as  I  never  experienced  before,  or 
since.  I  remember  still  the  grand  sough  of  those  woods  ; 
or,  perhaps,  in  the  stillest  times,  the  distant  ripple  of  Tay. 
Nothing  else  to  converse  with  but  this  and  my  own 
thoughts,  which  never  for  a  moment  pretended  to  be  joy- 
ful, and  were  sometimes  pathetically  sad.  I  was  in  the 
miserablest  dyspeptic  health,  uncertain  whether  I  ought 
not  to  quit  on  that  account,  and  at  times  almost  resolving 
to  do  it ;  driven  far  away  from  all  my  loved  ones.  My 
poor  "  Schiller,"  nothing  considerable  of  a  work  even  to 
my  own  judgment,  had  to  be  steadily  persisted  in  as  the 
only  protection  and  resource  in  this  inarticulate  huge 
"  wilderness,"  actual  and  symbolical.  My  editor,  I  think, 
was  complimentary  ;  but  I  knew  better.  The  "  Times  " 
newspaper  once  brought  me,  without  commentary  at  all, 
an  "  eloquent  "  passage  reprinted  (about  the  tragedy  of 
noble  literary  life),  which  I  remember  to  have  read  with 
more  pleasure  in  this  utter  isolation,  and  as  the  "  first  " 
public  nod  of  approval  I  had  ever  had,  than  any  criticism 
or  laudation  that  has  ever  come  to  me  since.  For  about 
two  hours  it  had  lighted  in  the  desolation  of  my  inner  man 
a  strange  little  glow  of  illumination ;  but  here  too,  on  re- 


l66  EDWARD   IRVING. 

flection,  I  "  knew  better,"  and  the  winter  afternoon  was 
not  over  when  I  saw  clearly  how  very  small  this  conquest 
was,  and  things  were  in  their  statJL  quo  again. 

"Schiller"  done,  I  began  "  Wilhelm  Meister,"  a  task 
I  liked  perhaps  rather  better,  too  scanty  as  my  knowledge 
of  the  element,  and  even  of  the  language,  still  was.  Two 
years  before  I  had  at  length,  after  some  repulsions,  got 
into  the  heart  of  "  Wilhelm  Meister,"  and  eagerly  read  it 
through ;  my  sally  out,  after  finishing,  along  the  vacant 
streets  of  Edinburgh,  a  windless,  Scotch-misty  Saturday 
night,  is  still  vivid  to  me.  "  Grand,  surely,  harmoniously 
built  together,  far  seeing,  wise  and  true.  When,  for  many 
years,  or  almost  in  my  whole  life  before,  have  I  read  such 
a  book  ?  "  Which  I  was  now,  really  in  part  as  a  kind  of 
duty,  conscientiously  translating  for  my  countrymen,  if 
they  would  read  it — as  a  select  few  of  them  have  ever 
since  kept  doing. 

I  finished  it  the  next  spring,  not  at  Kinnaird  but  at 
Mainhill.  A  month  or  two  there  with  my  best  of  nurses 
and  of  hostesses — my  mother ;  blessed  voiceless  or  low- 
voiced  time,  still  sweet  to  me  ;  with  London  now  silently 
ahead,  and  the  Bullers  there,  or  to  be  there.  Of  Kinnaird 
life  they  had  now  had  enough,  and  of  my  miserable  health 
far  more  than  enough  some  time  before  !  But  that  is  not 
my  subject  here.  I  had  ridden  to  Edinburgh,  there  to 
consult  a  doctor,  having  at  last  reduced  my  complexities 
to  a  single  question.  Is  this  disease  curable  by  medicine, 
or  is  it  chronic,  incurable  except  by  regimen,  if  even  so? 
This  question  I  earnestly  put;  got  response,  "It  is  all 
tobacco,  sir;  give   up  tobacco."     Gave  it  instantly  and 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 6/ 

strictly  up.  Found,  after  long  months,  that  I  might  as 
well  have  ridden  sixty  miles  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
poured  my  sorrows  into  the  long  hairy  ear  of  the  first 
jackass  I  came  upon,  as  into  this  select  medical  man's, 
whose  name  I  will  not  mention. 

After  these  still  months  at  Mainhill,  my  printing  at 
Edinburgh  was  all  finished,  and  I  went  thither  with  my 
preface  in  my  pocket ;  finished  that  and  the  rest  of  the 
"  Meister  "  business  (i8o/.  of  payment  the  choicest  part 
of  it  !j  rapidly  off;  made  a  visit  to  Haddington  ;  what  a 
retrospect  to  me,  now  encircled  by  the  silences  and  the 
eternities  ;  most  beautiful,  most  sad  !  I  remember  the 
"  gimp  bonnet "  she  wore,  and  her  anxious  silent 
thoughts,  and  my  own  ;  mutually  legible,  both  of  them, 
in  part ;  my  own  little  darling  now  at  rest,  and  far  away  1 
— which  was  the  last  thing  in  Scotland.  Of  the  Leith 
smack,  every  figure  and  event  in  which  is  curiously  pres- 
ent, though  so  unimportant,  I  will  say  nothing  ;  only  that 
we  entered  London  River  on  a  beautiful  June  morning  ; 
scene  very  impressive  to  me,  and  still  very  vivid  in  me  ; 
and  that,  soon  after  midday,  I  landed  safe  in  Irving's,  as 
appointed. 

Irving  lived  in  Myddelton  Terrace,  hodie  Myddelton 
Square,  Islington,  No.  4.  It  was  a  new  place;  houses 
bright  and  smart,  but  inwardly  bad,  as  usual.  Only  one 
side  of  the  now  square  was  built — the  western  side— which 
has  its  back  towards  Battle  Bridge  region.  Irving's  house 
was  fourth  from  the  northern  end  of  that,  which,  of  course, 
had  its  left  hand  on  the  New  Road.  The  place  was  airy, 
not  uncheerful.      Our  chief  prospect  from  the  front  was  a 


1 68  EDWARD   IRVING. 

good  space  of  green  ground,  and  in  it,  on  the  hither  edge 
of  it,  the  big  open  reservoir  of  Myddelton's  "  New  River," 
now  above  two  centuries  old  for  that  matter,  but  recently 
made  new  again,  and  all  cased  in  tight  masonry  ;  on  the 
spacious  expanse  of  smooth  flags  surrounding  which  it 
was  pleasant  on  fine  mornings  to  take  an  early  promen- 
ade, with  the  free  sky  overhead  and  the  New  Road  with 
its  lively  traffic  and  vehiculation  seven  or  eight  good  yards 
below  our  level.  I  remember  several  pretty  strolls  here, 
ourselves  two,  while  breakfast  was  getting  ready  close  by; 
and  the  esplanade,  a  high  little  island,  lifted  free  out  of 
the  noises  and  jostlings,  was  all  our  own. 

Irving  had  received  me  with  the  old  true  friendliness ; 
wife  and  household  eager  to  imitate  him  therein,  I  seem 
to  have  stayed  a  good  two  or  three  weeks  with  them  at 
that  time.  Buller  arrangements  not  yet  ready ;  nay, 
sometimes  threatening  to  become  uncertain  altogether  ! 
and  off  and  on  during  the  next  ten  months  I  saw  a  great 
deal  of  my  old  friend  and  his  new  affairs  and  posture. 
That  first  afternoon,  with  its  curious  phenomena,  is  still 
very  lively  in  me.  Basil  Montague's  eldest  son,"  Mr. 
Montague  junior,  accidental  guest  at  our  neat  little  early 
dinner,  my  first  specimen  of  the  London  dandy — broken 
dandy  ;  very  mild  of  manner,  who  went  all  to  shivers, 
and  died  miserable  soon  after.  This  was  novelty  first. 
Then,  during  or  before  his  stay  with  us,  dash  of  a  brave 
carriage  driving  up,  and  entry  of  a  strangely-complexioned 
young  lady,  with  soft  brown  eyes  and  floods  of  bronze  red 

'  Noble  lady's  step-son.     She  was  Basil's  third  wife,  and  Iiad  four  kinds 
of  children  at  home— a  most  sad  miscellany,  as  I  afterwards  found. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 69 

hair,  really  a  pretty-looking,  smiling,  and  amiable,  though 
most  foreign  bit  of  magnificence  and  kindly  splendour, 
Avhom  they  welcomed  by  the  name  of "  dear  Kitty.'' 
Kitty  Kirkpatrick,  Charles  Buller's  cousin  or  half-cousin, 
Mrs.  Strachey's  full  cousin,  with  whom  she  lived  ;  her 
birth,  as  I  afterwards  found,  an  Indian  romance,  mother  a 
sublime  Begiiniy  father  a  ditto  English  official,  mutually 
adoring,  wedding,  living  withdrawn  in  their  own  private 
paradise,  romance  famous  in  the  East.  A  very  singular 
"  dear  Kitty,"  who  seemed  bashful  withal,  and  soon  went 
away,  twitching  off  in  the  lobby,  as  I  could  notice  not 
without  wonder,  the  loose  label  which  was  sticking  to  my 
trunk  or  bag,  still  there  as  she  tripped  past,  and  carrying 
it  off  in  her  pretty  hand.  With  what  imaginable  object 
then,  in  heaven's  name  ?  To  show  it  to  Mrs.  Strachey  I 
afterwards  guessed,  to  whom  privately  poor  I  had  been 
prophesied  of  in  the  most  grandiloquent  terms.  This 
might  be  called  novelty  second,  if  not  first,  and  far  great- 
est. Then  after  dinner  in  the  drawing-room,  which  was 
prettily  furnished,  the  romance  of  said  furnishing,  which 
had  all  been  done  as  if  by  beneficent  fairies  in  some  tem- 
porary absence  of  the  owners.  "  We  had  decided  on  not 
furnishing  it,"  Irving  told  me,  "  not  till  we  had  more 
money  ready  ;  and  on  our  return  this  was  how  we  found 
it.  The  people  here  are  of  a  nobleness  you  have  never 
before  seen."  "  And  don't  you  yet  guess  at  all  who  can 
have  done  it  ?  "  "  H'm,  perhaps  we  guess  vaguely,  but 
it  is  their  secret,  and  we  should  not  break  it  against  their 
will."  It  turned  out  to  have  been  Mrs.  Strachey  and  dear 
Kitty,  both  of  whom  were  rich  and  openhanded,  that  had 


170  EDWARD    IRVING. 

done  this  fine  stroke  of  art  magic,  one  of  the  many  munifi- 
cences achieved  by  them  in  this  new  province.  Perhaps 
the  "noble  lady"  had  at  first  been  suspected,  but  how 
innocently  she  !  Not  flush  in  that  way  at  all.  though 
notably  so  in  others  !  The  talk  about  these  and  other 
noble  souls  and  new  phenomena,  strange  to  me  and  half 
incredible  in  such  interpretation,  left  me  wondering  and 
confusedly  guessing  over  the  much  that  I  had  heard  and 
seen  this  day. 

Irving's  London  element  and  mode  of  existence  had 
its  questionable  aspects  from  the  first ;  and  one  could 
easily  perceive,  here  as  elsewhere,  that  the  ideal  of  fancy 
and  the  actual  of  fact  were  two  very  different  things.  It 
was  as  the  former  that  my  friend,  according  to  old  habit, 
strove  to  represent  it  to  himself,  and  to  make  it  be;  and 
it  was  as  the  latter  that  it  obstinately  continued  being ! 
There  were  beautiful  items  in  his  present  scene  of  life  ; 
but  a  great  majority  which,  under  specious  figure,  were 
intrinsically  poor,  vulgar,  and  importunate,  and  in- 
troduced largely  into  one's  existence  the  character  of 
hiiggermuggei' ,  not  of  greatness  or  success  in  any  real 
sense. 

He  was  inwardly,  I  could  observe,  nothing  like  so 
happy  as  in  old  days  ;  inwardly  confused,  anxious,  dis- 
satisfied ;  though  as  it  were  denying  it  to  himself,  and 
striving,  if  not  to  talk  big,  which  he  hardly  ever  did,  to 
think  big  upon  all  this.  We  had  many  strolls  together, 
no  doubt  much  dialogue,  but  it  has  nearly  all  gone  from 
me  ;  probably  not  so  worthy  of  remembrance  as  our  old 
communings  were.     Crowds  of  visitors  came  about  him. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  I/I 

and  ten  times  or  a  hundred  times  as  many  would  have 
come  if  allowed  ;  well-dressed,  decorous  people,  but  for 
most  part  tiresome,  ignorant,  weak,  or  even  silly  and  ab- 
surd. He  persuaded  himself  that  at  least  he  "  loved  their 
love  ;  "  and  of  this  latter,  in  the  kind  they  had  to  offer 
him,  there  did  seem  to  be  no  lack.  He  and  I  were  walk- 
ing, one  bright  summer  evening,  somewhere  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Islington,  in  what  was  or  had  once  been  fields, 
and  was  again  coarsely  green  in  general,  but  with  symp- 
toms of  past  devastation  by  bricklayers,  who  have  now 
doubtless  covered  it  all  with  their  dirty  human  "  dog- 
hutches  of  the  period;"  when,  in  some  smoothish  hol- 
lower  spot,  there  suddenly  disclosed  itself  a  considerable 
company  of  altogether  fine-looking  young  girls,  who  had 
set  themselves  to  dance  ;  all  in  airy  bonnets,  silks,  and 
flounces,  merrily  alert,  nimble  as  young  fawns,  tripping  it 
to  their  own  rhythm  on  the  light  fantastic  toe,  with  the 
bright  beams  of  the  setting  sun  gilding  them,  and  the  hum 
and  smoke  of  huge  London  shoved  aside  as  foil  or  back- 
ground. Nothing  could  be  prettier.  At  sight  of  us  they 
suddenly  stopped,  all  looking  round  ;  and  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest, a  dainty  litde  thing,  stept  radiantly  out  to  Irving. 
"  Oh  !  oh  !  Mr.  Irving  !  "  and  blushing  and  smiling  offered 
her  pretty  lips  to  be  kissed,  which  Irving  gallantly  stooped 
down  to  accept  as  well  worth  while.  Whereupon,  after 
some  benediction  or  pastoral  words,  we  went  on  our  way. 
Probably  I  rallied  him  on  such  opulence  of  luck  provided 
for  a  man,  to  which  he  could  answer  properly  as  a  spiritual 
shepherd,  not  a  secular. 

There    were   several    Scotch    merchant   people    among 


172  EDWARD    IRVING. 

those  that  came  about  him,  substantial  city  men  of  shrewd 
insight  and  good  honest  sense,  several  of  whom  seemed 
trul}'  attached  and  reverent.  One,  William  Hamilton,  a 
very  shrewd  and  pious  Nithsdale  man,  who  wedded  a 
sister  of  Mrs.  Irving' s  by  and  by,  and  whom  I  knew  till 
his  death,  was  probably  the  chief  of  these,  as  an  old  good 
Mr,  Dinwiddle,  very  zealous,  very  simple,  and  far  from 
shrewd,  might  perhaps  be  reckoned  at  or  near  the  other  end 
of  the  series.  Sir  Peter  Laurie,  afterwards  of  aldermanic 
and  even  mayoral  celebrity,  came  also  pretty  often,  but 
seemed  privately  to  look  quite  from  the  aldermanic  point 
of  view  on  Irving  and  the  new  "  Caledonian  Chapel  "  they 
were  struggling  to  get  built — old  Mr.  Dinwiddle  especial- 
ly struggling  ;  and  indeed  once  to  me  at  Paris,  a  while 
after  this,  he  likened  Irving  and  Dinwiddle  to  Harlequin 
and  Blast,  whom  he  had  seen  in  some  farce  then  current ; 
Harlequin  conjuring  up  the  most  glorious  possibilities, 
like  this  of  their  "  Caledonian  Chapel,"  and  Blast  loyally 
following  him  with  swift  destruction  on  attempting  to 
help.  Sir  Peter  rather  took  to  me,  but  not  I  much  to 
him.  A  long-sighted  satirical  ex-saddler  I  found  him  to 
be,  and  nothing  better  ;  nay,  something  of  an  ex-Scotch- 
man too,  which  I  could  still  less  forgive.  I  went  with 
the  Irvings  once  to  his  house  (Crescent,  head  of  Portland 
Place)  to  a  Christmas  dinner  this  same  year.  Very  sump- 
tuous, very  cockneyish,  strange  and  unadmirable  to  me  ; 
and  don't  remember  to  have  met  him  again.  On  our  com- 
ing to  live  in  London  he  had  rather  grown  in  civic  fame  and 
importance,  and  possibly,  for  I  am  not  quite  sure,  on  the 
feeble  chance  of  being  of  some  help,  I  sent  him  some  in- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 73 

dication  or  other; '  but  if  so  he  took  no  notice  ;  gave  no 
sign.  Some  years  afterwards  I  met  him  in  my  rides  in 
the  Park,  evidently  recognisant,  and  wilHng  or  wistful  to 
speak,  but  it  never  came  to  effect,  there  being  now  no 
charm  in  it.  Then  again,  years  afterwards,  when  "  Latter- 
day  Pamphlets  "  were  coming  out,  he  wrote  me  on  that 
of  Model  Prisons  a  knowing,  approving,  kindly  and  civil 
letter,  to  which  I  willingly  responded  by  a  kindly  and 
civil.  Not  very  long  after  that  I  think  he  died,  riding 
diligently  almost  to  the  end.  Poor  Sir  Peter  !  he  was 
nothing  of  a  bad  man,  very  far  other  indeed  ;  but  had 
lived  in  a  loud  roaring,  big,  pretentious,  and  intrinsically 
barren  sphere,  unconscious  wholly  that  he  might  have 
risen  to  the  top  in  a  considerably  nobler  and  fruitfuUcr 
one.  What  a  tragic,  treacherous  stepdame  is  vulgar 
Fortune  to  her  children  !  Sir  Peter's  wealth  has  gone 
now  in  good  part  to  somebody  concerned  in  discovering, 
not  for  the  first  time,  the  source  of  the  Nile  (blessings  on 
it !) — a  Captain  Grant,  I  think,  companion  to  Speke,  hav- 
ing married  Sir  Peter's  Scotch  niece  and  lady  heiress,  a 
good  clever  girl,  once  of  "  Haddington,"  and  extremely 
poor,  who  made  her  way  to  my  loved  one  on  the  ground 
of  common  country  in  late  years,  and  used  to  be  rather 
liked  here  in  the  few  visits  she  made. 

Grant  and  she,  who  are  now  gone  to  India,  called  after 
marriage  but  found  nobody ;  nor  now  ever  will. 

By  far  the  most  distinguished  two,  and  to  me  the  alone 
important,  of  Irving's  London  circle,  were  Mrs.  Strachey 

'  A  project  belike — and  my  card  with  it — one  of  several  air-castles  I  was 
anxiously  building  at  that  time  before  taking  to  French  Revolution. 


174  EDWARD   IRVING. 

(Mrs.  BuUer's  younger  sister),  and  the  "  noble  lady  "  Mrs. 
Basil  Montague,  with  both  of  whom  and  their  households 
I  became  acquainted  by  his  means.  One  of  my  first  visits 
was  along  with  him  to  Goodenough  House,  Shooter's  Hill, 
where  the  Stracheys  oftenest  were  in  summer.  I  remem- 
ber once  entering  the  httle  winding  avenue,  and  seeing,  in 
a  kind  of  open  conservatory  or  verandah  on  our  approach- 
ing the  house,  the  effulgent  vision  of  "  dear  Kitty"  bur- 
ied among  the  roses  and  almost  buried  under  them  ;  who 
on  sight  of  us  glided  hastily  in.  The  before  and  after  and 
all  other  incidents  of  that  first  visit  are  quite  lost  to  me, 
but  I  made  a  good  many  visits  there  and  in  town,  and 
grew  familiar  with  my  ground. 

Of  Mrs.  Strachey  I  have  spoken  already.  To  this  day, 
long  years  after  her  death,  I  regard  her  as  a  singular  pearl 
of  a  woman,  pure  as  dew,  yet  full  of  love,  incapable  of 
unveracity  to  herself  or  others.  Examiner  Strachey  had 
long  been  an  official  (judge  etc.)  in  Bengal,  where  brothers 
of  his  were,  and  sons  still  are.  Eldest  son  is  now  master, 
by  inheritance,  of  the  family  estate  in  Somersetshire.  One 
of  the  brothers  had  translated  a  curious  old  Hindoo  trea- 
tise on  algebra,  which  had  made  his  name  familiar  to  me. 
Edward  (that  I  think  was  the  examiner's  name)  might  be 
a  few  years  turned  of  fifty  at  this  time  ;  his  wife  twenty 
years  younger,  with  a  number  of  pretty  children,  the  eldest 
hardly  fourteen,  and  only  one  of  them  a  girl.  They  lived 
in  Fitzroy  Square,  a  fine-enough  house,  and  had  a  very 
pleasant  country  establishment  at  Shooter's  Hill  ;  where, 
in  summer  time,  they  were  all  commonly  to  be  found.  I 
have  seldom  seen  apleasanter  place  ;  a  panorama  of  green, 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 75 

flowery,  clear,  and  decorated  country  all  round  ;  an  um- 
brageous little  park,  with  roses,  gardens  ;  a  modestly- 
excellent  house  ;  from  the  drawing-room  window  a  con- 
tinual view  of  ships,  multiform  and  multitudinous,  saiHng 
up  or  down  the  river  (about  a  mile  off)  ;  smoky  London 
as  background  ;  the  clear  sky  overhead  ;  and  within  doors 
honesty,  good  sense,  and  smiling  seriousness  the  rule,  and 
not  the  exception.  Edward  Strachey  was  a  genially-abrupt 
man,  a  Utilitarian  and  Democrat  by  creed  ;  yet  beyond 
all  things  he  loved  Chaucer,  and  kept  reading  him  ;  a  man 
rather  tacit  than  discursive,  but  wihing  to  speak,  and  doing 
it  well,  in  a  fine,  tinkling,  mellow-toned  voice,  in  an  in- 
genious aphoristic  way  ;  had,  withal,  a  pretty  vein  of  quiz, 
which  he  seldom  indulged  in  ;  a  man  sharply  impatient  of 
pretence,  of  sham  and  untruth  in  all  forms  ;  especially 
contemptuous  of  quality  pretensions  and  affectations,  which 
he  scattered  grinningly  to  the  winds.  Dressed  in  the  simr 
plest  form,  he  walked  daily  to  the  India  House  and  back, 
though  there  were  fine  carriages  in  store  for  the  woman 
part;  scorned  cheerfully  "the  general  humbug  of  the 
world,"  and  honestly  strove  to  do  his  own  bit  of  duty, 
spiced  by  Chaucer  and  what  else  of  inward  harmony  or 
condiment  he  had.  Of  religion  in  articulate  shape  he  had 
none,  but  much  respected  his  wife's,  whom  and  whose 
truthfulness  in  that  as  in  all  things,  he  tenderly  esteem.ed 
and  loved  ;  a  m.an  of  many  qualities  comfortable  to  be 
near.  At  his  house,  both  in  town  and  here,  I  have  seen 
pleasant  graceful  people,  whose  style  of  manners,  if  nothing 
else,  struck  me  as  new  and  superior. 

Mrs.    Strachey  took  to   me  from   the  first,  nor  ever 


176  EDWARD   IRVING. 

swerved.  It  strikes  me  now  more  than  it  then  did,  she 
silently  could  have  liked  to  see  "  dear  Kitty"  and  myself 
come  together,  and  so  continue  near  her,  both  of  us, 
through  life.  The  good  kind  soul !  And  Kitty,  too,  was 
charming  in  her  beautiful  Begum  sort ;  had  wealth  abun- 
dant, and  might,  perhaps  have  been  charmed  ?  None 
knows.  She  had  one  of  the  prettiest  smiles,  a  visible  sense 
of  humour,  the  slight  merry  curl  of  her  upper  lip  (right  side 
of  it  only),  the  carriage  of  her  head  and  eyes  on  such  oc- 
casions, the  quiet  little  things  she  said  in  that  kind,  and 
her  low-toned  hearty  laugh  were  noticeable.  This  was 
perhaps  her  most  spiritual  quality.  Of  developed  intel- 
lect she  had  not  much,  though  not  wanting  in  discernment ; 
amiable,  affectionate,  graceful ;  might  be  called  attractive  ; 
not  slim  enough  for  the  title  "  pretty,"  not  tall  enough  for 
"beautiful;"  had  something  low-voiced,  languidly  har- 
pionious,  placid,  sensuous  ;  loved  perfumes,  etc.  ;  a  half- 
Begum ;  in  short,  an  interesting  specimen  of  the  semi- 
oriental  Englishwoman.  Still  lives! — near  Exeter;  the 
wife  of  some  ex-captain  of  Sepoys,  with  many  children, 
whom  she  watches  over  with  a  passionate  instinct ;  and 
has  not  quite  forgotten  me,  as  I  had  evidence  once  in  late 
years,  thanks  to  her  kind  little  heart. 

The  Montague  establishment  (25  Bedford  Square)  was 
still  more  notable,  and  as  unlike  this  as  possible  ;  might 
be  defined,  not  quite  satirically,  as  a  most  singular  social 
and  spiritual  menagerie ;  which,  indeed,  was  well  known 
and  much  noted  and  criticised  in  certain  literary  and  other 
circles.  Basil  Montague,  a  Chancery  barrister  in  excel- 
lent practice,  hugely  a  sage,  too,  busy  all  his  days  upon 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 77 

"  Bacon's  Works,"  and  continually  preaching  a  superfinish 
morality  about  benevolence,  munificence,  health,  peace, 
unfailing  happiness.  Much  a  bore  to  you  by  degrees, 
and  considerably  a  humbug  if  you  probed  too  strictly. 
Age  at  this  time  might  be  about  sixty ;  good  middle 
stature,  face  rather  fine  under  its  grizzled  hair,  brow  very 
prominent ;  wore  oftenest  a  kind  of  smile,  not  false  or 
consciously  so,  but  insignificant,  and  as  if  feebly  defensive 
against  the  intrusions  of  a  rude  world.  On  going  to 
Hinchinbrook  long  after,  I  found  he  was  strikingly  like 
the  dissolute,  questionable  Earl  of  Sandwich  (Foote's 
"Jeremy  Diddler ")  ;  who,  indeed,  had  been  father  of 
him  in  a  highly  tragic  way.  His  mother,  pretty  Miss 
Reay,  carefully  educated  for  that  function  ;  Rev.  ex- 
dragoon  Hackman  taking  this  so  dreadfully  to  heart  that, 
being  if  not  an  ex-lover,  a  lover  (bless  the  mark  !)  he  shot 
her  as  she  came  out  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  one  night, 
and  got  well  hanged  for  it.  The  story  is  musty  rather, 
and  there  is  a  loose  foolish  old  book  upon  it  called  "  Love 
and  Madness,"  which  is  not  worth  reading.  Poor  Basil  ! 
no  wonder  he  had  his  peculiarities,  coming  by  such  a 
genesis,  and  a  life  of  his  own  which  had  been  brimful  of 
difficulties  and  confusions  !  It  cannot  be  said  he  managed 
it  ill,  but  far  the  contrary,  all  things  considered.  No- 
body can  deny  that  he  wished  all  the  world  rather  well, 
could  wishing  have  done  it.  Express  malice  against  any- 
body or  anything  he  seldom  or  never  showed.  I  myself 
experienced  much  kind  flattery  (if  that  were  a  benefit), 
much  soothing  treatment  in  his  house,  and  learned  several 
things  there  which  were  of  use  afterwards,  and  not  alloyed 

12 


1 78  EDWARD   IRVING. 

by  the  least  liarm  done  me.  But  it  was  his  wife,  the 
"  noble  lady,"  who  in  all  senses  presided  there,  to  whom 
I  stand  debtor,  and  should  be  thankful  for  all  this. 

Basil  had  been  thrice  married.  Children  of  all  his 
marriages,  and  one  child  of  the  now  Mrs.  Montagu's  own 
by  a  previous  marriage,  were  present  in  the  house  ;  a 
most  difficult  miscellany.  The  one  son  of  B.'s  first  mar- 
riage we  have  already  dined  with,  and  indicated  that  he 
soon  ended  by  a  bad  road.  Still  worse  the  three  sons  of 
the  second  marriage,  dandy  young  fellows  by  this  time, 
who  went  all  and  sundry  to  the  bad,  the  youngest  and 
luckiest  soon  to  a  madhouse,  where  he  probably  still  is. 
Nor  were  the  two  boys  of  Mrs.  Montagu  Tertia  a  good 
kind  ;  thoroughly  vain  or  even  proud,  and  with  a  spice 
of  angry  falsity  discernible  amid  their  showy  talents. 
They  grew  up  only  to  go  astray  and  be  unlucky.  Both 
long  since  are  dead,  or  gone  out  of  sight.  Only  the  eldest 
child,  Emily,  the  single  daughter  Basil  had,  succeeded  in 
the  world;  made  a  good  match  (in  Turin  country  some- 
where), and  is  still  doing  well.  Emily  was  Basil's  only 
daughter,  but  she  was  not  his  wife's  only  one.  Mrs. 
Montagu  had  by  her  former  marriage,  which  had  been 
brief,  one  daughter,  six  or  eight  years  older  than  Emily 
Montagu.  Anne  Skepper  the  name  of  this  one,  and 
York  or  Yorkshire  her  birthplace  ;  a  brisk,  witty,  pretty- 
ish,  sufficiently  clear-eyed  and  sharp-tongued  young  lady  ; 
bride,  or  affianced,  at  this  time,  of  the  poet  "Barry  Corn- 
wall," i.e.  Brian  W.  Procter,  whose  wife,  both  of  them 
still  prosperously  living  (i860),  she  now  is.  Anne  rather 
liked  me,  I  her  ;  an  evidently  true,  sensible,  and  practical 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1/9 

young  lady  in  a  house  considerably  in  want  of  such  an 
article.  She  was  the  fourth  genealogic  species  among 
those  children,  visibly  the  eldest,  all  but  Basil's  first  son 
now  gone  ;  and  did,  and  might  well  pass  for,  the  flower 
of  the  collection. 

Ruling  such  a  miscellany  of  a  household,  with  Basil 
Montagu  at  the  head,  and  an  almost  still  stranger  miscel- 
laneous society  that  fluctuated  through  it,  Mrs.  Montagu 
had  a  problem  like  few  others.  But  she,  if  anyone,  was 
equal  to  it.  A  more  constant  ajid  consummate  artist  in 
that  kind  you  could  nowhere  meet  with ;  truly  a  remark- 
able and  partly  a  high  and  tragical  woman  ;  now  about 
fifty,  with  the  remains  of  a  certain  queenly  beauty  which 
she  still  took  strict  care  of.  A  tall,  rather  thin  figure  ;  a 
face  pale,  intelligent,  and  penetrating;  nose  fine,  rather 
large,  and  decisively  Roman  ;  pair  of  bright,  not  soft,  but 
sharp  and  small  black  eyes,  with  a  cold  smile  as  of  enquiry 
in  them  ;  fine  brow  ;  fine  chin  (both  rather  prominent) ; 
thin  lips — lips  always  gently  shut,  as  if  till  the  enquiry 
were  completed,  and  the  time  came  for  something  of  royal 
speech  upon  it.  She  had  a  slight  Yorkshire  accent,  but 
spoke — Dr.  Hugh  Blair  could  not  have  picked  a  hole  in 
it — and  you  might  have  printed  every  word,  so  queen- 
like, gentle,  soothing,  measured,  prettily  royal  towards 
subjects  whom  she  wished  to  love  her.  The  voice  was 
modulated,  low,  not  inharmonious  ;  yet  there  was  some- 
thing of  metallic  in  it,  akin  to  that  smile  in  the  eyes. 
One  durst  not  quite  love  this  high  personage  as  she 
wished  to  be  loved  !  Her  very  dress  was  notable  ;  always 
the  same,  and  in   a   fashion  of  its  own  ;  kind  of  widow's 


I  So  EDWARD    IRVING. 

cap  fastened  below  the  chin,  darkish  pucc-colourcd  silk 
all  the  rest,  and  (I  used  to  hear  from  one  who  knew  !) 
was  admirable,  and  must  have  required  daily  the  fasten- 
ing of  sixty  or  eighty  pins. 

There  were  many  criticisms  of  Mrs.  Montagu — often 
angry  ones ;  but  the  truth  is  she  did  love  and  aspire  to 
human  excellence,  and  her  road  to  it  was  no  better  than 
a  steep  hill  of  jingling  boulders  and  sliding  sand.  There 
remained  therefore  nothing,  if  you  still  aspired,  but  to 
succeed  ill  and  put  the  best  face  on  it.  Which  she  amply 
did.  I  have  heard  her  speak  of  the  Spartan  boy  who  let 
the  fox  hidden  under  his  robe  eat  him,  rather  than  rob 
him  of  his  honour  from  the  theft. 

In  early  life  she  had  made  some  visit  to  Nithsdale  (to 
the  "  Craiks  of  Arligsland  "),  and  had  seen  Burns,  of 
whom  her  worship  continued  fervent,  her  few  recollec- 
tions always  a  jewel  she  was  ready  to  produce.  She  must 
have  been  strikingly  beautiful  at  that  time,  and  Burns's 
recognition  and  adoration  would  not  be  wanting ;  the 
most  royally  courteous  of  mankind  she  always  defined 
him,  as  the  first  mark  of  his  genius.  I  think  I  have  heard 
that,  at  a  ball  at  Dumfries,  she  had  frugally  constructed 
some  dress  by  sewing  real  flowers  upon  it ;  and  shone  by 
that  bit  of  art,  and  by  her  fine  bearing,  as  the  cynosure 
of  all  eyes.  Her  father,  I  gradually  understood,  not  from 
herself,  had  been  a  man  of  inconsiderable  wealth  or  posi- 
tion, a  wine  merchant  in  York,  his  name  Benson.  Her 
first  husband,  Mr.  Skepper,  some  young  lawyer  there, 
of  German  extraction  ;  and  that  the  romance  of  her  wed- 
ding  Montagu,   which  she   sometimes    touched    on,   had 


EDWARD   IRVING.  l8l 

been  prosaically  nothing  but  this.  Seeing  herself,  on 
Skepper's  death,  left  destitute  with  a  young  girl,  she  con- 
sented to  take  charge  of  Montagu's  motherless  confused 
family  under  the  name  of  "  governess,"  bringing  her  own 
little  Anne  as  appendage.  Had  succeeded  well,  and  bet- 
ter and  better,  for  some  time,  perhaps  some  years,  in  that 
ticklish  capacity  ;  whereupon  at  length  offer  of  marriage, 
which  she  accepted.  Her  sovereignty  in  the  house  had 
to  be  soft,  judicious,  politic,  but  it  was  constant  and  valid, 
felt  to  be  beneficial  withal.  "  She  is  like  one  in  command 
of  a  mutinous  ship  which  is  ready  to  take  fire,"  Irving 
once  said  to  me.  By  this  time  he  had  begun  to  discover 
that  this  "noble  lady"  was  in  essentiality  an  artist,  and 
hadn't  perhaps  so  much  loved  him  as  tried  to  buy  love 
from  him  by  soft  ministrations,  by  the  skilfullest  flattery 
liberally  laid  on.  He  continued  always  to  look  kindly 
towards  her,  but  had  now,  or  did  by-and-by,  let  drop  the 
old  epithet.  Whether  she  had  done  him  good  or  ill 
would  be  hard  to  say  ;  ill  perhaps  !  In  this  liberal  Lon- 
don, pitch  your  sphere  one  step  lower  than  yourself,  and 
you  can  get  what  amount  of  flattery  you  will  consent  to. 
Everybody  has  it,  like  paper  money,  for  the  printing,  and 
will  buy  a  small  amount  of  ware  by  any  quantity  of  it. 
The  generous  Irving  did  not  find  out  this  so  soon  as  some 
surlier  fellows  of  us  ! 

On  one  of  the  first  fine  mornings,  Mrs.  Montague, 
along  with  Irving,  took  me  out  to  see  Coleridge  at  High- 
gate.  My  impressions  of  the  man  and  of  the  place  are 
conveyed  faithfully  enough  in  the  "Life  of  Sterling  ;  " 
that  first  interview  in  particular,  of  which  I  had  expected 


I  83  EDWARD   IRVING. 

very  little,  Avas  idle  and  unsatisfactory,  and  yielded  me 
nothing.  Coleridge,  a  pufify,  anxious,  obstructed-look- 
ing,  fattish  old  man,  hobbled  about  with  us,  talking  with 
a  kind  of  solemn  emphasis  on  matters  which  were  of  no 
interest  (and  even  reading  pieces  in  proof  of  his  opinions 
thereon).  I  had  him  to  myself  once  or  twice,  in  various 
parts  of  the  garden  walks,  and  tried  hard  to  get  some- 
thing about  Kant  and  Co.  from  him,  about  "  reason  " 
versus  "  understanding"  and  the  like,  but  in  vain.  Noth- 
ing came  from  him  that  was  of  use  to  me  that  day,  or  in 
fact  any  day.  The  sight  and  sound  of  a  sage  wdio  was  so 
venerated  by  those  about  me,  and  whom  I  too  would  will- 
ingly have  venerated,  but  could  not — this  was  all.  Sev- 
eral times  afterwards,  Montagu,  on  Coleridge's  "  Thurs- 
day evenings,"  carried  Irving  and  me  out,  and  returned 
blessing  Heaven  (I  not)  for  what  he  had  received.  Irving 
and  I  walked  out  more  than  once  on  mornings  too,  and 
found  the  Dodona  oracle  humanly  ready  to  act,  but  never 
to  me,  or  Irving  either  I  suspect,  explanatory  of  the 
question  put.  Good  Irving  strove  always  to  think  that 
he  was  getting  priceless  wisdom  out  of  this  great  man, 
but  must  have  had  his  misgivings.  Except  by  the  Mon- 
tagu-Irving channel,  I  at  no  time  communicated  with 
Coleridge.  I  had  never  on  my  own  strength  had  much 
esteem  for  him,  and  found  slowly  in  spite  of  myself  that 
I  was  getting  to  have  less  and  less.  Early  in  1825  was 
my  last  sight  of  him  ;  a  print  of  Porson  brought  some 
trifling  utterance  :  "  Sensuality  such  a  dissolution  of  the 
features  of  a  man's  face  ;  "  and  I  remember  nothing  more. 
On  my  second  visit  to  London  (autumn  1830)  Irving  and 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 83 

I  had  appointed  a  day  for  a  pilgrimage  to  Higligate,  but 
the  day  was  one  rain  deluge  and  we  couldn't  even  try. 
Soon  after  our  settling  here  (late  in  1834)  Coleridge  was 
reported  to  be  dying,  and  died  ;  I  had  seen  the  last  of 
him  almost  a  decade  ago. 

A  great  "  worship  of  genius  "  habitually  went  on  at 
Montagu's,  from  self  and  wife  especially  ;  Coleridge  the 
head  of  the  Lares  there,  though  he  never  appeared  in 
person,  but  only  wrote  a  word  or  two  of  note  on  occa- 
sions. A  confused  dim  miscellany  of  "  geniuses  ''  (mostly 
nondescript  and  harmlessly  useless)  hovered  fitfully  about 
the  establishment  ;  I  think  those  of  any  reality  had  tired 
and  gone  away.  There  was  much  talk  and  laud  of  Charles 
Lamb  and  his  Pepe  etc.,  but  he  never  appeared.  At  his 
own  house  I  saw  him  once ;  once  I  gradually  felt  to 
have  been  enough  for  me.  Poor  Lamb  !  such  a  "divine 
genius"  you  could  find  in  the  London  world  only! 
Hazlitt,  whom  I  had  a  kind  of  curiosity  about,  was  not 
now  of  the  "admitted"  (such  the  hint);  at  any  rate 
kept  strictly  away.  There  was  a  "  Crabbe  Robinson," 
who  had  been  in  Weimar  etc.,  who  was  first  of  the  "  Own 
Correspondents "  now  so  numerous.  This  is  now  his 
real  distinction.  There  w^as  a  Mr.  Fearn,  "  profound 
in  mataphysics  "  ("  dull  utterly  and  dry  ").  There  was. 
a  Dr.  Sir  Anthony  Carlile,  of  name  in  medicine,  na- 
tive of  Durham  and  a  hard-headed  fellow,  but  Utili- 
tarian to  the  bone,  who  had  defined  poetry  to  Irving 
once  as  "  the  prodooction  of  a  rude  aage."  We  were 
clansmen,  he  and  I,  but  had  nothing  of  mutual  attrac- 
tion, nor  of  repulsion  either,  for  the  man  didn't  want  for 


l84  EDWARD    IRVING. 

shrewd  sense  in  his  way.  I  heard  continual  talk  and 
admiration  of  "the  grand  old  English  writers"  (Fuller, 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  various  others— Milton  more 
rarely) ;  this  was  the  orthodox  strain.  But  there  was 
little  considerable  of  actual  knowledge,  and  of  critical 
appreciation  almost  nothing  at  the  back  of  it  anywhere  ; 
and  in  the  end  it  did  one  next  to  no  good,  yet  per- 
haps not  quite  none,  deducting  in  accurate  balance  all 
the  ill  that  might  be  in  it. 

Nobody  pleased  me  so  much  in  this  miscellany  as 
Procter  (Barry  Cornwall),  who  for  the  fair  Anne  Skepper's 
sake  was  very  constantly  there.  Anne  and  he  .were  to 
have  been,  and  were  still  to  be  married,  but  some  dis- 
aster or  entanglement  in  Procter's  attorney  business  had 
occurred  (some  partner  defalcating  or  the  like),  and 
Procter,  in  evident  distress  and  dispiritment,  was  waiting 
the  slow  conclusion  of  this ;  which  and  the  wedding  there- 
upon happily  took  place  in  the  winter  following.  A 
decidedly  rather  pretty  little  fellow  Procter,  bodily  and 
spiritually ;  manners  prepossessing,  slightly  London-ele- 
gant, not  unpleasant;  clear  judgment  in  him,  though  of 
narrow  field ;  a  sound  honourable  morality,  and  airy 
friendly  ways  ;  of  slight  neat  figure,  vigorous  for  his  size  ; 
fine  genially  rugged  little  face,  fine  head  ;  something 
curiously  dreamy  in  the  eyes  of  him,  lids  drooping  at  the 
outer  ends  into  a  cordially  meditative  and  drooping  ex- 
pression ;  would  break  out  suddenly  now  and  then  into 
opera  attitude  and  a  La  ca  dame  la  mano  for  a  moment ; 
had  something  of  real  fun,  though  in  London  style.  Me 
he  had  invited  to  "  his  garret,"  as  he  called  it,  and  was 


EDWARD    IRVING.  1 85 

always  good  and  kind  and  so  continues,  though  I  hardly 
see  him  once  in  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

The  next  to  Procter  in  my  esteem,  and  the  consid- 
erably more  important  to  me  just  then,  was  a  young  Mr. 
Badams,  in  great  and  romantic  estimation  there,  and 
present  every  now  and  then,  though  his  place  and  business 
lay  in  Birmingham  ;  a  most  cheery,  gifted,  really  amiable 
man,  with  whom  not  long  afterwards  I  more  or  less 
romantically  went  to  Birmingham,  and  though  not  cured 
of  "dyspepsia"  there  (alas,  not  the  least)  had  two  or 
three  singular  and  interesting  months,  as  will  be' seen. 

Irving's  preaching  at  Hatton  Garden,  which  I  regularly 
attended  while  in  his  house,  and  occasionally  afterwards, 
did  not  strike  me  as  superior  to  his  Scotch  performances 
of  past  time,  or,  in  private  fact,  inspire  me  with  any  com- 
plete or  pleasant  feeling.  Assent  to  them  I  could  not, 
except  under  very  wide  reservations,  nor,  granting  all  his 
postulates,  did  either  matter  or  manner  carry  me  captive, 
or  at  any  time  perfect  my  admiration.  The  force  and 
weight  of  what  he  urged  was  undeniable ;  the  potent 
faculty  at  work,  like  that  of  a  Samson  heavily  striding 
along  with  the  gates  of  Gaza  on  his  shoulders  ;  but  there 
was  a  want  of  spontaneity  and  simplicity,  a  something  of 
strained  and  aggravated,  of  elaborately  intentional,  which 
kept  gaining  on  the  mind.  One  felt  the  bad  element  to 
be  and  to  have  been  unwholesome  to  the  honourable  soul. 
The  doors  were  crowded  long  before  opening,  and  you 
got  in  by  ticket ;  but  the  first  sublime  rush  of  \\hat  once 
seemed  more  than  popularity,  and  had  been  nothing  more 
— Lady  Jersey  "  sitting  on  the  pulpit  steps,"   Canning, 


1 86  EDWARD   IRVING. 


Brougham,  Mackintosh,  etc.   rushing  day  after  day— was 
now  quite  over,  and  there  remained  only  a  popularity  of 
''the  people;  "  not  of  the  plehs  at  all,  but  never  higher 
than  of  the  well-dressed  populus  henceforth,  which  was  a 
sad  change  to  the  sanguine  man.     One  noticed  that  he 
was  not  happy,  but  anxious,  struggling,  questioning  the 
future  ;  happiness,  alas,  he  was  no  more  to  have,  even  in 
the  old  measure,  in  this  world  !     At  sight  of  Canning, 
Brougham,  Lady  Jersey  and  Co.,  crowding  round  him 
and  listening  week  after  week  as   if  to  the   message  of 
salvation,  the  noblest  and  joyfullest  thought  (I  know  this 
on  perfect  authority)  had  taken  possession  of  his  noble, 
too  sanguine,  and  too  trustful  mind  ;  "  that  the  Christian 
religion  was  to  be  a  truth  again,  not  a  paltry  form,  and 
to  rule  the  world,  he  unworthy,  even  he,  the  chosen  in- 
strument."    Mrs.  Strachey,  who  had  seen  him  in  her  own 
house  in  these  moods,  spoke  to  me  once  of  this,  and  only 
once,  reporting  some  of  his   expressions  with  an  affec- 
tionate sorrow.     Cruelly  blasted  all  these  hopes  were,  but 
Irving  never  to  the  end  of  his  life  could  consent  to  give 
them  up.     That  was  the  key  to  all  his  subsequent  pro- 
cedures,  extravagances,   aberrations,   so  far   as    I    could 
understand  them.     Whatever  of  blame  (and  there  was  on 
the  surface  a  fond  credulity,  or  perhaps,  farther  down,  and 
as  root  to  such  credulity,  some  excess  of  self-love,  which 
I  define  always  as  love  that  others  should  love  him,  not 
as  any  worse  kind),  with  that  degree   of  blame   Irving 
must  stand  charged,  with  that  and  with   no   more,  so  far 
as  I  could  testify  or  understand. 

Good  Mrs.  Oliphant,  and  probably  her  public,  have 


I 


EDWARD    IRVING.  18/ 

much  mistaken  me  on  this  point.  That  Irving  to  the  very- 
last  had  abundant  ' '  popularity,"  and  confluence  of  auditors 
sufficient  for  the  largest  pulpit  "vanity,"  I  knew  and 
know,  but  also  that  his  own  immeasurable  and  quasi- 
celestial  hope  remained  cruelly  blasted,  refusing  the  least 
bud  farther,  and  that  without  this  all  else  availed  him 
nothing.  Fallacious  semblances  of  bud  it  did  shoot  out 
again  and  again,  under  his  continual  fostering  and  forcing, 
but  real  bud  never  more,  and  the  case  in  itself  is  easy  to 
understand. 

He  had  much  quiet  seriousness,  beautiful  piety  and 
charity,  in  this  bud  time  of  agitation  and  disquietude,  and 
I  was  often  honestly  sorry  for  him.  Here  was  still  the  old 
true  man,  and  his  new  element  seemed  so  false  and  abom- 
inable. Honestly,  though  not  so  purely,  sorry  as  now, 
now  when  element  and  man  are  alike  gone,  and  all  that 
was  or  partook  of  paltry  in  one's  own  view  of  them  is  also 
mournfully  gone !  He  had  endless  patience  with  the 
mean  people  crowding  about  him  and  jostling  his  life  to 
pieces ;  hoped  always  they  were  not  so  mean ;  never 
complained  of  the  uncomfortable  huggermugger  his  life 
was  now  grown  to  be  ;  took  everything,  wife,  servants, 
guests,  by  the  most  favourable  handle.  He  had  infinite 
delight  in  a  little  baby  boy  there  now  was  ;  went  dandling 
it  about  in  his  giant  arms,  tick-ticking  to  it,  laughing  and 
playing  to  it ;  would  turn  seriously  round  to  me  with  a 
face  sorrowful  rather  than  otherwise,  and  say,  "  Ah, 
Carlyle,  this  little  creature  has  been  sent  to  me  to  soften 
my  hard  heart,  which  did  need  it." 

Towards  all  distressed  people  not  absolutely  criminals, 


l88  EDWARD    IRVING. 

his  kindness,  frank  helpfulness,  long-suffering,  and  assidu- 
ity, were  in  truth  wonderful  to  me  ;  especially  in  one 
case,  that  of  a  Reverend  Mr.  Macbeth,  which  I  thought 
ill  of  from  the  first,  and  which  did  turn  out  hopeless. 
Macbeth  was  a  Scotch  preacher,  or  licentiate,  who  had 
failed  of  a  kirk,  as  he  had  deserved  to  do,  though  his 
talents  were  good,  and  was  now  hanging  very  miscel- 
laneously on  London,  with  no  outlooks  that  were  not 
bog  meteors,  and  a  steadily  increasing  tendency  to 
strong  drink.  He  knew  town  well,  and  its  babble  and 
bits  of  temporary  cynosures,  and  frequented  haunts 
good  and  perhaps  bad  ;  took  me  one  evening  to  the 
poet  Campbell's,  whom  I  had  already  seen,  but  not  suc- 
cessfully. 

Macbeth  had  a  sharp  sarcastic,  clever  kind  of  tongue ; 
not  much  real  knowledge,  but  was  amusing  to  talk  with 
on  a  chance  walk  through  the  streets ;  older  than  myself 
by  a  dozen  years  or  more.  Like  him  I  did  not;  there 
was  nothing  of  wisdom,  generosity,  or  worth  in  him,  but 
in  secret,  evidently  discernible,  a  great  deal  of  bankrupt 
vanity  which  had  taken  quite  the  malignant  shape.  Unde- 
niable envy,  spite,  and  bitterness  looked  through  every 
part  of  him.  A  tallish,  slouching,  lean  figure,  face  sorrow- 
ful malignant,  black,  not  unlike  the  picture  of  a  devil. 
To  me  he  had  privately  much  the  reverse  of  liking.  I 
have  seen  him  in  Irving's  and  elsewhere  (perhaps  with  a 
little  drink  on  his  stomach,  poor  soul  !)  break  out  into 
oblique  little  spurts  of  positive  spite,  which  I  understood 
to  mean  merely,  "Young  Jackanapes,  getting  yourself 
noticed  and  honoured  while  a  mature  man  of  genius  is 


EDWARD   IRVING.  1 89 

etc.  etc. !  "  and  took  no  notice  of,  to  the  silent  comfort 
of  self  and  neighbours. 

This  broken  Macbeth  had  been  hanging  a  good  while 
about  Irving,  who  had  taken  much  earnest  pains  to  rescue 
and  arrest  him  on  the  edge  of  the  precipices,  but  latterly- 
had  begun  to  see  that  it  was  hopeless,  and  had  rather  left 
him  to  his  own  bad  courses.  One  evening,  it  was  in  dirty- 
winter  weather  and  I  was  present,  there  came  to  Irving 
or  to  Mrs.  Irving,  dated  from  some  dark  tavern  in  the 
Holborn  precincts,  a  piteous  little  note  from  Macbeth. 
"Ruined  again  (tempted,  O  how  cunningly,  to  my  old 
sin)  ;  been  drinking  these  three  weeks,  and  now  have  a 
chalk-score  and  no  money,  and  can't  get  out.  Oh,  help 
a  perishing  sinner  !  "  The  majority  was  of  opinion, 
"  Pshaw  !  it  is  totally  useless  !  "  but  Irving  after  some 
minutes  of  serious  consideration  decided,  "  No,  not  to- 
tally ;  "  and  directly  got  into  a  hackney  coach,  wife  and 
he,  proper  moneys  in  pocket,  paid  the  poor  devil's  tavern 
score  (some  2/.  los.  or  so,  if  I  remember)  and  brought 
him  groaning  home  out  of  his  purgatory  again  :  for  he 
was  in  much  bodily  suffering  too.  I  remember  to  have 
been  taken  up  to  see  him  one  evening  in  his  bedroom 
(comfortable  airy  place)  a  week  or  two  after.  He  was  in 
clean  dressing-gown  and  night-cap,  walking  about  the 
floor  ;  affected  to  turn  away  his  face  and  be  quite 
"ashamed"  when  Irving  introduced  me,  which  as  I  could 
discern  it  to  be  painful  hypocrisy  merely,  forbade  my 
visit  to  be  other  than  quite  brief.  Comment  I  made  none 
here  or  downstairs  ;  was  actually  a  little  sorry,  but  with- 
out hope,  and  rather  think  this  was  my  last  sight  of  Mac- 


190  EDWARD   IRVING. 

beth.  Another  time,  which  could  not  now  be  distant, 
when  he  lay  again  under  chalk-score  and  bodily  sickness 
in  his  drinking  shop,  there  would  be  no  deliverance  but 
to  the  hospital  ;  and  there  I  suppose  the  poor  creature 
tragically  ended.  He  was  not  without  talent,  had  written 
a  "  Book  on  the  Sabbath,"  better  or  worse,  and  I  almost 
think  was  understood,  with  all  his  impenitences  and  ma- 
lignities, to  have  real  love  for  his  poor  old  Scotch  mother. 
After  that  night  in  his  clean  airy  bedroom  I  have  no  re- 
collection or  tradition  of  him — a  vanished  quantity,  hardly 
once  in  my  thoughts  for  above  forty  years  past.  There 
were  other  disastrous  or  unpleasant  figures  whom  I  met 
at  Irving's  ;  a  Danish  fanatic  of  Calvinistic  species  (re- 
peatedly, and  had  to  beat  him  off),  a  good  many  fanatics 
of  different  kinds — one  insolent  "  Bishop  of  Toronto," 
triumphant  Canadian  but  Aberdeen  by  dialect  (once  only, 
from  whom  Irving  defended  me),  etc.,  etc.  ;  but  of  these  I 
say  nothing.  Irving,  though  they  made  his  house-element 
and  life-element  continually  muddy  for  him,  was  endlessly 
patient  with  them  all. 

This  my  first  visit  to  London  lasted  with  interruptions 
from  early  June  1824  till  March  1825,  during  which  I  re- 
peatedly lodged  for  a  little  while  at  Irving's,  his  house 
ever  open  to  me  like  a  brother's,  but  cannot  now  recollect 
the  times  or  their  circumstances.  The  above  recollections 
extend  vaguely  over  the  whole  period,  during  the  last 
four  or  five  months  of  which  I  had  my  own  rooms  in 
Southampton  Street  near  by,  and  was  still  in  almost  con- 
stant familiarity.  My  own  situation  was  very  wretched  ; 
primarily  from  a  state  of  health  which  nobody  could  be 


EDWARD   IRVING.  IQI 

expected  to  understand  or  sympathise  with,  and  about 
which  I  had  as  much  as  possible  to  be  silent.  The  ac- 
cursed hag  "  Dyspepsia"  had  got  me  bitted  and  bridled, 
and  was  ever  striving  to  make  my  waking  living  day  a 
thing  of  ghastly  nightmares.  I  resisted  what  I  could  ; 
never  did  yield  or  surrender  to  her  ;  but  she  kept  my 
heart  right  heavy,  my  battle  very  sore  and  hopeless.  One 
could  not  call  it  hope  but  only  desperate  obstinacy  refus- 
ing to  flinch  that  animated  me.  "  Obstinacy  as  of  ten 
mules "  I  have  sometimes  called  it  since  ;  but  in  candid 
truth  there  w^as  something  worthily  hiivtan  in  it  too  ;  and 
I  have  had  through  life,  among  my  manifold  unspeakable 
blessings,  no  other  real  bower  anchor  to  ride  by  in  the 
rough  seas.  Human  "obstinacy"  grounded  on  real  faith 
and  insight  is  good  and  the  best. 

All  was  change,  too,  at  this  time  with  me,  all  un- 
certainty. Mrs.  Buller,  the  bright,  the  ardent,  the  airy, 
was  a  changeful  lady !  The  original  programme  had 
been,  we  were  all  to  shift  to  Cornwall,  live  in  some  beau- 
tiful Buller  cottage  there  was  about  East  Looe  or  West 
(on  her  eldest  brother-in-law's  property).  With  this 
as  a  fixed  thing  I  had  arrived  in  London,  asking  my- 
self "what  kind  of  a  thing  w^ill  it  be?"  It  proved  to 
have  become  already  a  thing  of  all  the  winds  ;  gone  like 
a  dream  of  the  night  (by  some  accident  or  other  !)  For 
four  or  five  weeks  coming  there  was  new  scheme,  fol- 
lowed always  by  newer  and  newest,  all  of  which  proved 
successively  inexecutable,  greatly  to  my  annoyance  and 
regret,  as  may  be  imagined.  The  only  thing  that  did 
ever  take  effect  was  the  shifting  of  Charles  and  me  out  to 


192 


EDWARD   IRVING. 


solitary  lodgings  at  Kew  Green,  an  isolating  of  us  two 
{pro  tcuiporc)  over  our  lessons  there,  one  of  the  dreariest 
and  uncomforttiblest  things  to  both  of  us.      It  lasted  for 
about  a  fortnight,  till  Charles,  I  suppose  privately  plead- 
ing-, put  an  end   to  it  as  intolerable  and  useless  both  (for 
one  could  not  "  study"  but  only  pretend  to  do  it  in  such 
an  element  !)     Other  wild  projects  rose  rapidly,  rapidly 
vanished  futile.     The  end  was,  in  a  week  or  two  after,  I 
deliberately  counselled  that  Charles  should  go  direct  for 
Cambridge  next  term,   in  the  meantime   making  ready 
under  some  fit  college  "  grinder  ;  "   I  myself  not  without 
regret  taking  leave  of  the  enterprise.     Which  proposal, 
after  some  affectionate  resistance  on  the  part  of  Charles, 
was  at  length  (rather  suddenly,  I  recollect)  acceded  to  by 
the  elder  people,  and  one  bright  summer  morning  (still 
vivid  to  mc)  I  stept  out  of  a  house  in  Foley  Place,  with 
polite  farewell  sounding  through  me,  and  the  thought  as 
I  walked   along  Regent  Street,  that  here  I  was  without 
employment   henceforth.      Money   was    no   longer   quite 
wanting,  enough  of  money  for  some  time  to  come,  but 
the  question  what  to  do  next  was  not  a  little  embarrass- 
ing, and  indeed  was  intrinsically  abstruse  enough. 

I  must  have  been  lodging  again  with  Irving  when  this 
finale  came.  I  recollect  Charles  Bullcr  and  I,  a  day  or 
some  days  after  quitting  Kew,  had  rendezvoused  by  ap- 
pointment in  Regent  Square  (St.  Pancras),  where  Irving 
and  a  great  company  were  laying  the  foundation  of 
"  Caledonian  Chapel  "  (which  still  stands  there),  and 
Irving  of  course  had  to  deliver  an  address.  Of  the  ad- 
dress, which  was  going  on  when  we  arrived,  I  could  hear 


EDWARD   IRVING.  I93 

nothing,  such  the  confusing  crowd  and  the  unfavourable 
locaHty  (a  muddy  chaos  of  rubbish  and  excavations,  Ir- 
ving  and  the  actors  shut  off  from  us  by  a  circle  of  rude 
bricklayers'  planks)  ;  but  I  well  remember  Irving's  glow- 
ing face,  streaming  hair,  and  deeply  moved  tones  as  he 
spoke  ;  and  withal  that  Charles  Buller  brought  me  some 
new  futility  of  a  proposal,  and  how  sad  he  looked,  good 
youth,  when  I  had  directly  to  reply  with  "  No,  alas,  I 
cannot,  Charles."  This  was  but  a  few  days  before  the 
Buller  finale. 

Twenty  years  after,  riding  discursively  towards  Tot- 
tenham one  summer  evening,  with  the  breath  of  the  wind 
from  northward,  and  London  hanging  to  my  right  hand 
like  a  grim  and  vast  sierra,  I  saw  among  the  peaks,  as 
easily  ascertainable,  the  high  minarets  of  that  chapel,  and 
thought  with  myself,  "  Ah,  you  fatal  tombstone  of  my 
lost  friend  !  and  did  a  soul  so  strong  and  high  avail  only 
to  build  yoti  ?  "  and  felt  sad  enough  and  rather  angry  in 
looking  at  the  thing. 

It  was  not  many  days  after  this  of  the  Regent  Square 
address,  which  was  quickly  followed  by  termination  with 
the  Bullers,  that  I  found  myself  one  bright  Sunday  morn- 
ing on  the  top  of  a  swift  coach  for  Birmingham,  with  in- 
tent towards  the  Mr.  Badams  above  mentioned,  and 
a  considerable  visit  there,  for  health's  sake  mainly. 
Badams  and  the  Montagues  had  eagerly  proposed  and 
counselled  this  step.  Badams  himself  was  so  eager  about 
it,  and  seemed  so  frank,  cheery,  ingenious,  and  friendly  a 
man  that  I  had  listened  to  his  pleadings  with  far  more 
regard  than  usual  in  such  a  case,  and  without  assenting 
13 


194  EDWARD   IRVING. 

had   been    seriously  considering  the  proposal  for   some 
weeks  before  (during  the  Kew  Green  seclusion  and  per- 
haps earlier).      lie  was  in  London  twice  or  thrice  while 
things  hung   in   deliberation,   and   was    each    time    more 
eager  and  persuasive  on  me.     In  fine  I  had  assented,  and 
was  rolling  along  through  sunny  England — the  first  con- 
siderable space  I  had  yet  seen  of  it — with  really  pleasant 
recognition  of  its  fertile   beauties   and  air  of  long-con- 
tinued cleanliness,  contentment,  and  well-being.     Stony 
Stratford,  Fenny  Stratford,  and  the  good  people  coming 
out  of  church,  Coventry,  etc.,  etc.,  all  this  is  still  a  pic- 
ture.     Our  coach  was  of  the  swiftest  in  the  world  ;  ap- 
pointments perfect  to  a  hair  ;  one  and  a  half  minutes  the 
time    allowed    for    changing   horses  ;   our   coachman,    in 
dress,     etc.,    resembled    a    "  sporting    gentleman,"    and 
scornfully  called  any  groundling  whom  he  disliked,  "  You 
Radical !  "  for  one  symptom.      I  don't  remember  a  finer 
ride,   as   if  on    the   arrow   of  Abaris,  with  lips  shut  and 
nothing  to  do  but  look.      My  reception  at  Ashsted   (west 
end  of  Birmingham,  not  far  from  the  great  Watt's  house 
of  that  name),  and   instalment  in  the  Badams'  domestici- 
ties, must  have  well  corresponded  to  my  expectations,  as 
I  have  now  no  memory  of  it.     My  visit  in  whole,  which 
lasted  for  above  three  months,  may  be  pronounced  inter- 
esting, idle,  pleasant,  and  successful,  though  singular. 

Apart  from  the  nimbus  of  Montague  romance  in  the 
first  accounts  I  had  got  of  Badams,  he  was  a  gifted, 
amiable,  and  remarkable  man,  who  proved  altogether 
friendly  and  beneficent,  so  far  as  he  went,  with  me,  and 
whose  final  history,  had  I  time  for  it,  would  be  tragical  in 


EDWARD   IRVING.  195 

its  kind.  He  was  eldest  boy  of  a  well-doing  but  not 
opulent  master- workman  (plumber,  I  think)  in  Warwick 
town  ;  got  marked  for  the  ready  talents  he  showed, 
especially  for  some  picture  he  had  on  his  own  resources 
and  unaided  inventions  copied  in  the  Warwick  Castle 
gallery  with  "  wonderful  success  "  ;  and  in  fine  was  taken 
hold  of  by  the  famous  Dr.  Parr  and  others  of  that  vicin- 
ity, and  lived  some  time  as  one  of  Parr's  scholars  in 
Parr's  house  ;  learning  I  know  not  what,  not  taking  very 
kindly  to  the  QLolic  digamma  department  I  should  appre- 
hend !  He  retained  a  kindly  and  respectful  remem- 
brance about  this  Trismegistus  of  the  then  pedants,  but 
always  in  brief  quizzical  form.  Having  declared  for  med- 
icine he  was  sent  to  Edinburgh  College,  studied  there 
for  one  session  or  more;  but  "being  desirous  to  marry 
some  beautiful  lady-love  "  (said  the  Montagues),  or  other- 
wise determined  on.  a  shorter  road  to  fortune,  he  now  cut 
loose  from  his  patrons,  and  modestly  planted  himself  in 
Birmingham,  with  purpose  of  turning  to  account  some 
chemical  ideas  he  had  gathered  in  the  classes  here  ;  rival- 
ling of  French  green  vitriol  by  purely  English  methods 
("no  husks  of  grapes  for  you  and  your  vitriol,  ye  Eng- 
lish ;  your  vitriol  only  half  the  selling  price  of  ours  !  ") 
that  I  believe  was  it,  and  Badams  had  fairly  succeeded  in 
it  and  in  other  branches  of  the  colour  business,  and  had  a 
manufactory  of  twenty  or  fewer  hands,  full  of  thrifty  and 
curious  ingenuity;  at  the  outer  corner  of  which,  fronting 
on  two  streets,  was  his  modest  but  comfortable  dwelling- 
house,  where  I  now  lived  with  him  as  guest.  Simplicity 
and  a  pure  and  direct  aim  at  the  essential  (aim  good  and 


196  EDWARD   IRVING. 

generally  siiccessful\  that  was  our  rule  in  this  establish- 
ment, which  Mas  and  continued  always  innocently  com- 
fortable and  home-like  to  me.  The  lowest  floor,  opening 
rearward  of  the  manufactory,  was  exclusively  given  up  to 
an  excellent  Mrs.  Barnet  (with  husband  and  family  of 
two),  who  in  perfection  and  in  silence  kept  house  to  us  ; 
her  husband,  whom  Badams  only  tolerated  for  her  sake, 
working  out  of  doors  among  the  twenty.  We  lived  in 
the  two  upper  floors,  entering  from  one  street  door,  and 
wearing  a  modestly  civilised  air.  Everything  has  still  a 
living  look  to  me  in  that  place  ;  not  even  the  bad  Barnet, 
who  never  showed  his  badness,  but  has  claims  on  me  ; 
still  more  the  venerable  lean  and  brown  old  grandfather 
Barnet,  who  used  to  "go  for  our  letters,"  and  hardly 
ever  spoke  except  by  his  fine  and  mournful  old  eyes. 
These  Barnets,  with  the  workmen  generally,  and  their 
quiet  steady  ways,  were  pleasant  to  observe,  but  espe- 
cially our  excellent,  sad,  pure,  and  silent  Mrs.  Barnet, 
correct  as  an  eight-day  clock,  and  making  hardly  as 
much  noise  !  Always  dressed  in  modest  black,  tall, 
clean,  well-looking,  light  of  foot  and  hand.  She  was 
very  much  loved  by  Badams  as  a  friend  of  his  mother's 
and  a  woman  of  real  worth,  bearing  well  a  heavy  enough 
load  of  sorrows  (chronic  disease  of  the  heart  to  crown 
them  he  would  add).  I  remember  the  sight  of  her,  one 
afternoon,  in  some  lighted  closet  there  was,  cutting  out 
the  bit  of  bread  for  the  children's  luncheon,  two  dear 
pretty  little  girls  who  stood  looking  up  with  hope,  her 
silence  and  theirs,  and  the  fine  human  relation  between 
them,  as  one  of  my  pleasant  glimpses  into  English  hum- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  I97 

ble  life.  The  younger  of  these  pretty  children  died  with- 
in few  years;  the  elder,  "  Bessy  Baxnet,"  a  creature  of 
distinguished  faculties  who  has  had  intricate  vicissitudes 
and  fortunate  escapes,  stayed  with  us  here  as  our  first  ser- 
vant (servant  and  friend  both  in  one)  for  about  a  year, 
then  went  home,  and  after  long  and  complete  disappear- 
ance from  our  thoughts  and  affairs,  re-emerged,  most 
modestly  triumphant,  not  very  long  ago,  as  wife  of  the 
accomplished  Dr.  Blakiston  of  Leamington  ;  in  which 
capacity  she  showed  a  generous  exaggerated  "  gratitude  " 
to  her  old  mistress  and  me,  and  set  herself  and  her  hus- 
band unweariedly  to  help  in  that  our  sad  Leamington 
season  of  woe  and  toil,  which  has  now  ended  in  eternal 
peace  to  one  of  us.  Nor  can  Dr.  B.'s  and  his  "  Bessy's" 
kindness  in  it  ever  be  forgotten  while  the  other  of  us  still 
lins^ers  here  !     Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

My  Birmingham  visit,  except  as  it  continually  kept  me 
riding  about  in  the  open  air,  did  nothing  for  me  in  the 
anti-dyspeptic  way,  but  in  the  social  and  spiritually  con- 
solatory way  it  was  really  of  benefit.  Badams  was  a 
horse  fancier,  skilful  on  horseback,  kept  a  choice  two  or 
three  of  horses  here,  and  in  theory  professed  the  obliga- 
tion to  "  ride  for  health,"  but  very  seldom  by  himself  did 
it — it  was  always  along  with  me,  and  not  one  tenth  part 
so  often  as  I  during  this  sojourn.  With  me  red  "  Taffy," 
the  briskest  of  Welsh  ponies,  went  galloping  daily  far 
and  wide,  unless  I  were  still  better  mounted  (for  exercise 
of  the  other  high-going  sort),  and  many  were  the  pleasant 
rides  I  had  in  the  Warwickshire  lanes  and  heaths,  and 
real  good  they  did  me,  if  Badams's  medicinal  and  dietetic 


I^g  EDWARD    IRVING. 

formalities  (to  which  I  strictly  conformed)  did  mc  little  or 
none.  His  unaffected  kindness,  and  cheerful  human  soci- 
ality and  friendliness,  manifest  at  all  times,  could  not  but 
be  of  use  to  me  too.  Seldom  have  I  seen  a  franker, 
trustier,  cheerier  form  of  human  kindliness  than  Ba- 
dams's.  How  I  remember  the  laughing  eyes  and  sunny 
figure  of  him  breaking  into  my  room  on  mornings,  him- 
self half-dressed  (waistband  in  hand  was  a  common  as- 
pect, and  hair  all  flying).  "What!  not  up  yet,  mon- 
ster ?  "  The  smile  of  his  eyes,  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
were  so  bright  and  practically  true  on  these  occasions. 
A  tight,  middle-sized,  handsome  kind  of  man,  eyes  blue, 
sparkling  soft,  nose  and  other  features  inclining  to  the 
pointed,  complexion,  which  was  the  weak  part,  tending 
rather  to  bluish,  face  always  shaven  bare  and  no  whiskers 
left ;  a  man  full  of  hope,  full  of  natural  intellect,  inge- 
nuity, invention,  essentially  a  gentleman ;  and  really 
looked  well  and  jauntily  aristocratic  when  dressed  for 
riding  or  the  like,  which  was  always  a  careful  preliminary. 
Slight  rusticity  of  accent  rather  did  him  good  ;  so  prompt, 
mildly  emphatic  and  expressive  were  the  words  that  came 
from  him.  His  faults  were  a  too  sanguine  temper,  and  a 
defective  inner  sternness  of  veracity :  true  he  Avas,  but 
not  sternly  enough,  and  would  listen  to  imagination  and 
delusive  hopes  when  Fact  said  No — for  which  two  faults, 
partly  recognisable  to  me  even  then,  I  little  expected  he 
would  by  and  by  pay  so  dear. 

We  had  a  pleasant  time  together,  many  pleasant  sum- 
mer rides,  and  outdoor  talks  and  in  ;  to  Guy's  Cliff,  War- 
wick Castle,  Sutton   Coldfield,   or    Kcnilworth,  etc.,   on 


EDWARD    IRVING.  I99 

holidays  ;  or  miscellaneously  over  the  furzy  heaths  and 
leafy  ruralities  on  common  evenings.  I  remember  well  a 
ride  we  made  to  Kenilworth  one  Saturday  afternoon  by 
the  "  wood  of  Arden  "  and  its  monstrous  old  oaks,  on  to 
the  famous  ruin  itself  {fresh  in  the  Scott  novels  then), 
and  a  big  jolly  farmer  of  Badams's,  who  lodged  us — nice 
polite  wife  and  he  in  a  finely  human  way — till  Monday 
morning,  with  much  talk  about  old  Parr,  in  whose  parish 
(Hatton)  we  then  were.  Old  Parr  would  have  been  de- 
sirabler  to  me  than  the  great  old  ruin  (now  mainly  a  skel- 
eton, part  of  it  a  coarse  farm-house,  which  was  the  most 
interesting  part).  But  Badams  did  not  propose  a  call  on 
his  old  pedant  friend,  and  I  could  not  be  said  to  regret 
the  omission  ;  a  saving  of  so  much  trouble  withal.  There 
was  a  sort  of  pride  felt  in  their  Dr.  Parr  all  over  this  re- 
gion ;  yet  everybody  seemed  to  consider  him  a  ridiculous 
old  fellow,  whose  strength  of  intellect  was  mainly  gone  to 
self-will  and  fantasticality.  They  all  mimicked  his  lisp, 
and  talked  of  wig  and  tobacco-pipe.  (No  pipe,  no  Parr ! 
his  avowed  principle  when  asked  to  dinner  among  fine 
people.)  The  old  man  came  to  Edinburgh  on  a  visit  to 
Dr.  Gregory,  perhaps  the  very  next  year  ;  and  there,  too, 
for  a  year  following  there  lingered  traditions  of  good- 
natured  grins  and  gossip,  M'hich  one  heard  of;  but  the 
man  himself  I  never  saw,  nor,  though  rather  liking  him, 
sensibly  cared  to  see. 

Another  very  memorable  gallop  (we  always  went  at 
galloping  or  cantering  pace,  and  Badams  was  proud  of 
his  cattle  and  their  really  great  prowess),  was  one  morn- 
ing out  to  Hagley  ;  to  the  top  of  the   Clent   Hill  for  a 


200  EDWARD   IRVING. 

view,  after  breakfast  at  Hagley  Tap,  and  then  return. 
Distance  from  Birmingham  about  seventeen  miles.  "  The 
Lcasowes "  (Poet  Shenstone's  place),  is  about  midway 
(visible  enough  to  left  in  the  level  sun-rays  as  you  gallop 
out)  ;  after  which  comes  a  singular  Terra  di  Lavoro — or 
wholly  metallic  country — Hales  Owen  the  heart  of  it. 
Thick  along  the  wayside,  little  forges  built  of  single  brick, 
hardly  bigger  than  sentry-boxes  ;  and  in  each  of  them, 
with  bellows,  stake,  and  hammer  a  woman  busy  making 
nails  ;  fine  tall  young  women  several  of  them,  old  others, 
but  all  in  clean  aprons,  clean  white  calico  jackets  (must 
have  been  Monday  morning),  their  look  industrious  and 
patient.  Seems  as  if  all  the  nails  in  the  world  were  get- 
ting made  here  on  very  unexpected  terms  !  Hales  Owen 
itself  had  much  sunk  under  the  improved  highway,  but 
was  cheerfully  jingling  as  we  cantered  through.  Hagley 
Tap  and  its  quiet  green  was  all  our  own  ;  not  to  be 
matched  out  of  England.  Lord  Lyttelton's  mansion  I 
have  ever  since  in  my  eye  as  a  noble-looking  place,  when 
his  lordship  comes  athwart  me  ;  a  rational,  ruggedly-con- 
siderate kind  of  man  whom  I  could  have  liked  to  see 
there  (as  he  was  good  enough  to  wish),  had  there  been  a 
Fortunatiis  travelling  carpet  at  my  disposal.  Smoke  pil- 
lars many,  in  a  definite  straight  or  spiral  shape  ;  the  Dud- 
Icy  "Black  Country,"  under  favorable  omens,  visible 
from  the  Clent  Hill  ;  after  which,  and  the  aristocratic  roof 
works,  attics,  and  grand  chimney  tops  of  Hagley  man- 
sion, the  curtain  quite  drops. 

Of  persons  also  I  met  some  notable  or  quasi-notable. 
"  Joe  "  Parkes,  then  a  small  Birmingham  attorney,  after- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  201 

wards  the  famous  Reform  Club  ditto,  was  a  visitor  at 
Badams's  on  rare  evenings  ;  a  rather  pleasant-talking, 
shrewd  enough  little  fellow,  with  bad  teeth,  and  a  knowing 
flighty  satirical  way  ;  whom  Badams  thought  little  of,  but 
tolerated  for  his  (Joe's)  mother's  sake,  as  he  did  Parkes 
senior,  who  was  her  second  husband.  The  famous  Joe  I 
never  saw  again,  though  hearing  often  of  his  preferments, 
performances,  and  him,  till  he  died,  not  long  since,  writ- 
ing a  new  "  Discovery  of  Junius,"  it  was  rumoured  ;  fit- 
enough  task  for  such  a  man.  Bessy  Parkes  (of  the  Rights 
of  Women)  is  a  daughter  of  his.  There  were  Phipsons, 
too,  "Unitarian  people,"  very  good  to  me.  A  young 
fellow  of  them,  still  young  though  become  a  pin  manu- 
facturer, had  been  at  Erlaiigen  University,  and  could  float 
along  in  a  light,  airy,  anecdotic  fashion  by  a  time.  He 
re-emerged  on  me  four  or  five  years  ago,  living  at  Putney  : 
head  grown  white  from  red,  but  heart  still  light ;  introdu- 
cing a  chemical  son  of  his,  whom  I  thought  not  unlikely  to 
push  himself  in  the  world  by  that  course.  Kennedy  of 
Cambridge,  afterwards  great  as  "  master  of  Shrewsbury 
school,"  was  polite  to  me,  but  unproductive.  Others — 
but  why  should  I  speak  of  them  at  all  ?  Accidentally, 
one  Sunday  evening,  I  heard  the  famous  Dr.  Hall  (of 
Leicester)  preach  ;  a  flabby,  puffy,  but  massy,  earnest, 
forcible-looking  man,  Jiomme  alors  cclcbre  !  Sermon  ex- 
tempore ;  text,  "  God  who  cannot  lie."  He  proved  be- 
yond shadow  of  doubt,  in  a  really  forcible  but  most  super- 
fluous way,  that  God  never  lied  (had  no  need  to  do  it, 
etc.).  "  As  good  prove  that  God  never  fought  a  duel," 
sniffed  Badams,  on  my  reporting  at  home. 


202  EDWARD   IRVING. 

Jemmy  Belcher  was  a  smirking  little  dumpy  Unitarian 
bookseller,  in  the  Bull-ring,  regarded  as  a  kind  of  curiosity 
and  favourite  among  these  people,  and  had  seen  me. 
One  showery  day  I  took  shelter  in  his  shop  ;  picked  up  a 
new  magazine,  found  in  it  a  cleverish  and  completely 
hostile  criticism  of  my  "  Wilhelm  Meister,"  of  my  Goethe, 
and  self,  etc.,  read  it  faithfully  to  the  end,  and  have  never 
set  eye  on  it  since.  On  stepping  out  of  my  bad  spirits 
did  not  feel  much  elevated  by  the  dose  just  swallowed, 
but  I  thought  with  myself,  "  This  man  is  perhaps  right  on 
some  points;  if  so,  let  him  be  admonitory!"  And  he 
was  so  (on  a  Scotticism,  or  perhaps  two) ;  and  I  did 
reasonably  soon  (in  not  above  a  couple  of  hours),  dismiss 
him  to  the  devil,  or  to  Jericho,  as  an  ill-given,  unservice- 
able kind  of  entity  in  my  course  through  this  w^orld.  It 
was  De  Ouincey,  as  I  often  enough  heard  afterwards 
from  foolish-talking  persons.  "  What  matter  who,  ye 
foolish-talking  persons  ? "  would  have  been  my  silent 
answer,  as  it  generally  pretty  much  was.  I  recollect,  too, 
how  in  Edinburgh  a  year  or  two  after,  poor  De  Ouincey, 
whom  I  wished  to  know,  was  reported  to  tremble  at  the 
thought  of  such  a  thing  ;  and  did  fly  pale  as  ashes,  poor 
little  soul,  the  first  time  we  actually  met.  He  was  a  pretty 
little  creature,  full  of  wire-drawn  ingenuities,  bankrupt 
enthusiasms,  bankrupt  pride,  with  the  finest  silver-toned 
low  voice,  and  most  elaborate  gently-winding  courtesies 
and  ingenuities  in  conversation.  "  What  wouldn't  one 
give  to  have  him  in  a  box,  and  take  him  out  to  talk  !  " 
That  was  Her  criticism  of  him,  and  it  was  right  good.  A 
bright,  ready,  and  melodious  talker,  but  in  the  end   an 


EDWARD   IRVING.  2O3 

inconclusive  and  long-winded.  One  of  the  smallest  man 
figures  I  ever  saw  ;  shaped  like  a  pair  of  tongs,  and  hardly- 
above  five  feet  in  all.  When  he  sate,  you  would  have 
taken  him,  by  candlelight,  for  the  beautifullest  little  child  ; 
blue-eyed,  sparkling  face,  had  there  not  been  a  something, 
too,  v/hich  said  ''  Eccovi — this  child  has  been  in  hell." 
After  leaving  Edinburgh  I  never  saw  him,  hardly  ever 
heard  of  him.  His  fate,  owing  to  opium  etc.,  was  hard 
and  sore,  poor  fine-strung  weak  creature,  launched  so  into 
the  literary  career  of  ambition  and  mother  of  dead  dogs. 
That  peculiar  kind  of  "  meeting  "  with  him  was  among  the 
phenomena  of  my  then  Birmingham  ("  Bromwich-ham," 
"  Brumagem,"  as  you  were  forced  to  call  it). 

Irving  himself,  once,  or  perhaps  twice,  came  to  us,  in 
respect  of  a  Scotch  Chapel  newly  set  on  foot  there,  and 
rather  in  tottering  condition.  Preacher  in  it  one  Crosbie, 
whom  I  had  seen  once  at  Glasgow  in  Dr.  Chalmers's,  a 
silent  guest  along  with  me,  whose  chief  characteristic  was 
helpless  dispiritment  under  dyspepsia,  which  had  come 
upon  him,  hapless  innocent  lazy  soul.  The  people  were 
very  kind  to  him,  but  he  was  helpless,  and  I  think  soon 
after  went  away.  What  became  of  the  Chapel  since  I 
didn't  hear.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Martin  of  Kirkcaldy,  with  his 
reverend  father,  and  perhaps  a  sister,  passed  through  Bir- 
mingham, bound  for  London  to  christen  some  new  child 
of  Irving's  ;  and  being  received  in  a  kind  of  gala  by  those 
Scotch  Chapel  people,  caused  me  a  noisy  not  pleasant 
day.  Another  day,  positively  painful  though  otherwise 
instructive,  I  had  in  the  Dudley  "  Black  Country"  (which 
I  had  once  seen  from  the  distance),  roving  about  among 


204  EDWARD   IRVING. 

the  coal  and  metal  mines  there,  in  company  or  neighbour- 
hood of  Mr.  Airy,  now  "  Astromomer  Royal,"  whom  I 
have  never  seen  since.  Our  party  was  but  of  four.  Some 
opulent  retired  Dissenting  Minister  had  decided  on  a  hol- 
iday ovation  to  Airy,  who  had  just  issued  from  Cambridge 
as  chief  of  Wranglers  and  mathematical  wonder,  and  had 
come  to  Birmingham  on  visit  to  some  footlicker  whose 
people  lived  there.  "  I  will  show  Airy  our  mine  country," 
said  the  reverend  old  friend  of  enlightenment,  "  and  Mr. 
G.,  Airy's  footlicker,  shall  accompany  !  "  That  was  his 
happy  thought;  and  Badams  hearing  it  from  him,  had 
suggested  me  (not  quite  unknown  to  him)  as  a  fourth 
figure.  I  was  ill  in  health,  but  thought  it  right  to  go. 
We  inspected  black  furnaces,  descended  into  coal  mines  ; 
poked  about  industriously  into  nature's  and  art's  sooty 
arcana  all  day  (with  a  short  recess  for  luncheon),  and 
returned  at  night  in  the  Reverend's  postchaise,  thoroughly 
wearied  and  disgusted,  one  of  us  at  least.  Nature's  sooty 
arcana  was  welcome  and  even  pleasant  to  me  ;  art's  also, 
more  or  less.  Thus  in  the  belly  of  the  deepest  mine, 
climbing  over  a  huge  jingle  of  new-loosened  coal,  there 
met  me  on  the  very  summit  a  pair  of  small  cheerful  human 
eyes  (face  there  was  none  discernible  at  first,  so  totally 
black  was  it,  and  so  dim  were  our  candles),  then  a  ditto 
ditto  of  lips,  internally  red  ;  which  I  perceived,  with  a 
comic  interest,  were  begging  beer  from  me  !  Nor  was 
Airy  himself  in  the  least  an  offence,  or  indeed  sensibly  a 
concern.  A  hardy  little  figure,  of  edacious  energetic 
physiognomy,  eyes  hard,  strong,  not  fine  ;  seemed  three 
or  four  years  younger  than  I,  and  to  be  in  secret  serenely, 


f 


EDWARD   IRVING.  .  205 

not  insolently,  enjoying  his  glory,  which  I  made  him 
right  welcome  to  do  on  those  terms.  In  fact  he  and  I 
hardly  spoke  together  twice  or  thrice,  and  had  as  good  as 
no  relation  to  each  other.  The  old  Reverend  had  taken 
possession  of  Airy,  and  was  all  day  at  his  elbow.  And 
to  me,  fatal  allotment,  had  fallen  the  "  footlicker,"  one  of 
the  foolishest,  most  conceited,  ever-babbling  blockheads 
I  can  remember  to  have  met. 

What  a  day  of  boring  (not  of  the  mine  strata  only  !) 
I  felt  as  if  driven  half  crazy,  and  mark  it  to  this  hour  with 
coal  ! 

But  enough,  and  far  more  than  enough,  of  my  Bir- 
mingham reminiscences  !  Irving  himself  had  been  with 
us.  Badams  was  every  few  weeks  up  in  London  for  a  day 
or  two.  Mrs.  Strachey,  too,  sometimes  wrote  to  me. 
London  was  still,  in  a  sense,  my  headquarters.  Early  in 
September  (it  must  have  been),  I  took  kind  leave  of  Ba- 
dams and  his  daily  kind  influences  ;  hoping,  both  of  us,  it 
might  be  only  temporary  leave  ;  and  revisited  London,  at 
least  passed  through  it,  to  Dover  and  the  sea-coast,  where 
Mrs.  Strachey  had  contrived  a  fine  sea  party,  to  consist 
of  herself,  with  appendages  of  the  Irvings  and  of  me, 
for  a  few  bright  weeks  !  I  reniember  a  tiny  bit  of  my 
journey,  solitary  on  the  coach- roof,  betv.-een  Canterbury 
and  Bridge.  Nothing  else  whatever  of  person  or  of  place 
from  Birmingham  to  that,  nor  anything  immediately  on- 
wards from  that  !  The  Irvings  had  a  dim  but  snuggish 
house,  rented  in  some  street  near  the  shore,  and  I  was  to 
lodge  with  them.  Mrs.  Strachey  was  in  a  brighter  place 
near  by  ;  detached  new  rovu,  called  Liverpool  Terrace  at 


206  EDWARD    IRVING. 

that  time  (now  buried  among  streets,  and  hardly  discerni- 
ble by  me  last  autumn  when  I  pilgrimed  thither  again 
after  forty-two  years). 

Mrs.  Strachey  had  Kitty  with  lier,  and  was  soon  ex- 
pecting her  husband.  Both  households  were  in  full 
action,  or  gradually  getting  into  it,  when  I  arrived. 

We  walked,  all  of  us  together  sometimes,  at  other 
times  in  threes  or  twos.  We  dined  often  at  Mrs.  Stra- 
chey's  ;  read  commonly  in  the  evenings  at  Irving's,  Irv- 
ing reader,  in  Phineas  Fletcher's  "  Purple  Island  "  for  one 
thing;  over  which  Irving  strove  to  be  solemn,  and  Kitty 
and  I  rather  not,  throwing  in  now  and  then  a  little  spice 
of  laughter  and  quiz.  I  never  saw  the  book  again,  nor  in 
spite  of  some  real  worth  it  had,  and  of  much  half-real  lau- 
dation, cared  greatly  to  see  it.  Mrs.  Strachey,  I  suspect, 
didn't  find  the  sea  party  so  idyllic  as  her  forecast  of  it. 
In  a  fortnight  or  so  Strachey  came,  and  then  there  was  a 
new  and  far  livelier  clement  of  anti-humbug,  anti-ennui, 
which  could  not  improve  matters.  She  determined  on 
sending  Strachey,  Kitty,  and  mc  off  on  a  visit  to  Paris  for 
ten  days,  and  having  the  Irvings  all  to  herself.  We  went 
accordingly  ;  saw  Paris,  saw  a  bit  of  France — nothing  like 
so  common  a  feat  as  now  ;  and  the  memory  of  that  is  still 
almost  complete,  if  it  were  a  legitimate  part  of  my  subject. 

The  journey  out,  weather  fine  and  novelty  awaiting 
young  curiosity  at  every  step,  was  very  pleasant.  Mon- 
treuil,  Noailles,  Abbeville,  Beauvais,  interesting  names, 
start  into  facts.  Sterne's  "  Sentimental  Journey  "  (espe- 
cially) is  alive  in  one  from  the  first  stage  onwards.  At 
Nampont,  on  the  dirty  little  street,  you   almost  expect  to 


EDWARD    IRVING.  20/ 

see  the  dead  ass  lying  !  Our  second  night  was  at  Beau- 
vais  ;  ghmpses  of  the  old  cathedral  next  morning  went  for 
nothing,  was  in  fact  nothing  to  me  ;  buttheghmpse  I  had 
had  the  night  before,  as  we  drove  in  this  way,  of  the  Cof- 
fee-house near  by,  and  in  it  no  company  but  one  tall, 
sashed,  epauletted,  well-dressed  officer  striding  dismally 
to  and  fro,  was,  and  still  is,  impressive  on  me,  as  an  almost 
unrivalled  image  of  human  enmn.  I  sate  usually  outside, 
fair  Kitty  sometimes,  and  Strachey  oftener,  sitting  by  me 
on  the  hindward  seat.  Carriage  I  think  was  Kitty's  own, 
and  except  her  maid  we  had  no  servants.  Postilion 
could  not  tell  me  where  "  Crecy  "  was,  when  we  were  in 
the  neighbourhood.  Country  in  itself,  till  near  Paris, 
ugly,  but  all  gilded  with  the  light  of  young  lively  wonder. 
Little  scrubby  boys  playing  at  ball  on  their  scrubby  patch 
of  parish  green  ;  how  strange  !  "  CJiaritc,  madame,  pour 
line  pauvre  miserable^  qui,  elle,  en  a  bicn  bcsoin  /  "  sang 
the  poor  lame  beggar  girls  at  the  carriage  door.  None  of 
us  spoke  French  well.  Strachey  grew  even  worse  as  we 
proceeded,  and  at  length  was  quite  an  amusement  to  hear. 
At  Paris  he  gave  it  up  altogether,  and  would  speak  noth- 
ing but  English  ;  which,  aided  by  his  vivid  looks  and 
gestures,  he  found  in  shops  and  the  like  to  answer  much 
better.  "  Quelque  chose  a  boire,  monsieur,"  said  an  ex- 
ceptional respectful  postilion  at  the  coach  window  before 
quitting.  "  Nong,  vous  avez  drive  devilish  siozv,"  an- 
swered Strachey  readily,  and  in  a  positive  half-quizzing 
tone.  This  was  on  the  way  home,  followed  by  a  storm  of 
laughter  on  our  part  and  an  angry  blush  on  the  postil- 
ion's. 


208  EDWARD    IRVING. 

From  about  Montmorency  (with  the  shadow  of  Rous- 
seau), especially  from  St.  Denis  to  Paris,  the  drive  was 
quite  beautiful,  and  full  of  interesting  expectation.  Mag- 
nificent broad  highway,  great  old  trees  and  then  potherb 
eardens  on  each  hand,  all  silent  too  in  the  brilliant  Octo- 
ber  afternoon  ;  hardly  one  vehicle  or  person  met,  till,  on 
mounting  the  shoulder  of  Montmarte,  an  iron  gate,  and 
douanier  with  his  brief  question  before  opening,  and 
Paris,  wholly  and  at  once,  lay  at  our  feet.  A  huge  bowl 
or  deepish  saucer  of  seven  miles  in  diameter  ;  not  a  breath 
of  smoke  or  dimness  anywhere  ;  every  roof,  and  dome, 
and  spire,  and  chimney-top  clearly  visible,  and  the  sky- 
light sparkling  like  diamonds.  I  have  never,  since  or  be- 
fore, seen  so  fine  a  view  of  a  town.  I  think  the  fair  Miss 
Kitty  was  sitting  by  me  ;  but  the  curious  speckled  straw 
hats  and  costumes  and  physiognomies  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  (fashionable,  I  forget  it  at  this  moment),  are  the 
memorablest  circumstances  to  me.  We  alighted  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix  (clean  and  good  hotel,  not  now  a  hotel)  , 
admired  our  rooms,  all  covered  with  mirrors  ;  our  grates, 
or  grate  backs,  each  wdth  a  citpidon  cast  on  it ;  and  roved 
about  the  Boulevards  in  a  happy  humour  till  sunset  or 
later.  Decidedly  later,  in  the  still  dusk,  I  remember  sit- 
ting down  in  the  Place  Vcndome,  on  the  steps  of  the  Col- 
umn, there  to  smoke  a  cigar.  Hardly  had  I  arranged  my- 
self when  a  bustle  of  military  was  heard  round  me;  clean, 
trim,  handsome  soldiers,  blue  and  white,  ranked  them- 
selves in  some  quality,  drummers  and  drums  especially 
faultless,  and  after  a  shoulder  arms\ix  so,  marched  off  in 
parties,  drums  fiercely  and  finely  clangouring  their  ran- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  209 

tan-plan.  Setting  the  watch  or  watches  of  this  human 
city,  as  I  understood  it.  "  Ha  !  my  tight  httle  fellows  in 
blue,  you  also  have  got  drums  then,  none  better ;  and  all 
the  world  is  of  kin  whether  it  all  agree  or  not  !  "  was  my 
childlike  reflection  as  I  silently  looked  on. 

Paris  proved  vastly  entertaining  to  me.     "  Walking 
about  the  streets  would  of  itself  (as  Gray  the  poet  says) 
have  amused  me  for  weeks."     I  met  two  young  Irishmen 
who  had  seen  me  once  at  Irving's,  who  were  excellent 
ciceroni.     They  were  on   their  way  to  the  liberation  of 
Greece,  a  totally  wildgoose  errand  as  then  seemed  to  me, 
and   as  perhaps    they  themselves    secretly   guessed,   but 
which  entitled  them  to  call  on  everybody  for  an  "  auto- 
graph to  our  album,"  their  main  employment  just  now. 
They  were  clever  enough  young  fellows,  and  soon  came 
home  again  out  of  Greece.     Considerably  the  taller  and 
cleverer,  black-haired  and  with  a  strong  Irish  accent,  was 
called  Tennent,  whom   I  never  saw  again.     The  milky, 
smaller   blondine    figure,  cousin   to  him,   was  Emerson, 
whom  I  met  twenty-five  years  afterwards  at  Allan  Cun- 
ningham's as   Sir  Emerson    Tc7i7ient,   late    Governor  of 
Ceylon,  and  complimented,  simpleton  that  I  was  !  on  the 
now  finely  brown  colour  of  his  hair  !     We  have  not  met 
since.     There  was  also  of  their  acquaintances  a  pleasant 
Mr.    Malcom,  ex-lieutenant  of  the   42nd,  native   of    the 
Orkney  Islands,  only   son   of  a    clergyman    there,  who 
as  a  young  ardent  lad  had  joined  Wellington's  army  at 
the  Siege  of  St.  Sebastian,  and  got  badly  wounded  (lame 
for  life)  at  the  battle    of  Thoulouse   that   same   season. 
Peace    coming,  he  was  invalided  on  half-pay  and   now 


210  EDWARD   IRVING. 

lived  with  his  widowed  mother  in  some  clean  upper  floor 
in  Edinburgh  on  frugal  kind  and  pretty  terms,  hanging 
loosely  by  literatnre,  for  which  he  had  some  talent.  We 
used  to  see  him  in  Edinburgh  with  pleasure  and  favour, 
on  setting  up  our  own  poor  household  there.  He  was  an 
amiable,  intelligent  little  fellow,  of  lively  talk  and  specu- 
lation, always  cheerful  and  with  a  traceable  vein  of 
humour  and  of  pathos  withal  (there  being  much  of  sad- 
ness and  affection  hidden  in  him),  all  kept,  as  his  natural 
voice  was,  in  a  fine  low  melodious  tone.  He  wrote  in 
annuals  and  the  like  vehicles  really  pretty  verses,  and 
was  by  degrees  establishing  something  like  a  real  reputa- 
tion, which  might  have  risen  higher  and  higher  in  that 
kind,  but  his  wound  still  hung  about  him  and  he  soon 
died,  a  year  or  two  after  our  quitting  Edinburgh  ;  which 
was  the  last  we  saw  of  him. 

Poor  little  Malcolm  !  he  quietly  loved  his  mother  very 
much,  his  vanished  father  too,  and  had  pieties  and  puri- 
ties very  alien  to  the  wild  reckless  ways  of  practice  and 
of  theory  which  the  army  had  led  him  into.  Most  of  his 
army  habitudes)  with  one  private  exception,  I  think, 
nearly  all)  he  had  successfully  washed  off  from  him.  To 
the  reprobate  "  theories  "  he  had  never  been  but  heartily 
abhorrent.  "No  God,  I  tell  you,  and  I  will  prove  it  to 
you  on  the  spot,"  said  some  elder  blackguard  Lieutenant 
among  a  group  of  them  in  their  tent  one  evening  (a 
Hanoverian,  if  I  recollect),  "  on  the  spot— none."  "  How 
then  ?  "  exclaimed  Ensign  Malcolm,  much  shocked.  The 
Hanoverian  lifted  his  canteen,  turned  the  bottom  of  it  up. 
"  Empty  ;  you  see  we  have  no  more  rum."     Then  hold- 


EDWARD    IRVING.  211 

ing  it  aloft  into  the  air,  said  in  a  tone  of  request,  "  Fill  us 
that  ;  "  paused  an  instant,  turned  it  bottom  up  empty- 
still,  and  with  a  victorious  glance  at  liis  companions,  set 
it  down  again  as  a  thing  that  spoke  for  itself.  This  was 
one  of  Malcolm's  war  experiences,  of  which  he  could 
pleasantly  report  a  great  many.  These  and  the  physical 
agonies  and  horrors  witnessed  and  felt  had  given  him  a 
complete  disgust  for  war.  He  could  not  walk  far,  always 
had  a  marked  halt  in  walking,  but  was  otherwise  my 
pleasantest  companion  in  Paris. 

Poor  Louis  Dix-htdt  had  been  "  lying  in  state  "  as  we 
passed  through  St.  Denis  ;  Paris  was  all  plastered  with 
placards,  "  Z^  Roi  est  mart;  vivc  le  Roi  / ''  announcing 
from  Chateaubriand  a  pamphlet  of  that  title.  I  made  no 
effort  to  see  Chateaubriand,  did  not  see  his  pamphlet 
either  ;  in  the  streets,  galleries,  cafe's,  I  had  enough  and 
to  spare.  Washington  Irving  was  said  to  be  in  Paris,  a 
kind  of  lion  at  that  time,  whose  books  I  somewhat  es- 
teemed. One  day  the  Emerson  Tennent  people  bragged 
that  they  had  engaged  him  to  breakfast  with  us  at  a  cer- 
tain cafe  next  morning.  We  all  attended  duly,  Strachey 
among  the  rest,  but  no  Washington  came.  "  Couldn't 
rightly  come,"  said  Malcolm  to  me  in  a  judicious  aside, 
as  we  cheerfully  breakfasted  with  him.  I  never  saw 
Washington  at  all,  but  still  have  a  mild  esteem  of  the 
good  man.  To  the  Louvre  Gallery,  alone  or  accom- 
panied, I  went  often  ;  got  rather  faintish  good  of  the  pic- 
tures there,  but  at  least  no  liar^n,  being  mute  and  deaf  on 
the  subject.  Sir  Peter, Laurie  came  to  me  one  day  ;  took 
me  to  dinner,  and  plenty  of  hard-headed  London  talk. 


212  EDWARD   IRVING. 

Another  day,  nobody  with  me  and  very  few  in  the 
gallery  at  all,  there  suddenly  came  storming  past,  with 
dishevelled  hair  and  large  besoms  in  their  hands,  which 
they  shoved  out  on  any  bit  of  paper  or  the  like,  a  row 
of  wild  Savoyards,  distractedly  proclaiming  "  Le  Roi  !  " 
*'le  Roi!"  and  almost  oversetting  people  in  their  fierce 
speed  to  clear  the  way.  Le  Roi,  Charles  Dix  in  person, 
soon  appeared  accordingly,  with  three  or  four  attendants, 
very  ugly  people,  especially  one  of  them  (who  had  blear 
eyes  and  small  bottle  nose,  never  identifiable  to  my  en- 
quiries since).  Charles  himself  was  a  swart,  slightish, 
insipid-looking  man,  but  with  much  the  air  of  a  gentle- 
man, insipidly  endeavoring  to  smile  and  be  popular  as  he 
walked  past ;  sparse  public  indifferent  to  him,  and  silent 
nearly  all.  I  had  a  real  sympathy  with  the  poor  gentle- 
man, but  could  not  bring  up  the  least  Vive  le  Roi  in  the 
circumstances.  We  understood  he  was  going  to  look  at 
a  certain  picture  or  painting  now  on  the  easel,  in  a  room 
at  the  very  end  (entrance  end)  of  the  gallery  which  one 
had  often  enough  seen,  generally  with  profane  mockery 
if  with  any  feeling.  Picture  of,  or  belonging  to,  the  birth 
or  baptism  of  what  they  called  the  child  of  miracle  (the 
assassinated  Due  de  Berri's  posthumous  child,  hodie 
Henri  V.  in  partibus).  Picture  as  yet  distressingly  ugly, 
mostly  in  a  smear  of  dead  colours,  brown  and  even  green, 
and  with  a  kind  of  horror  in  the  subject  of  it  as  well. 
How  tragical  are  men  once  more  ;  how  merciless  withal 
to  one  another  !  I  had  not  the  least  real  pity  for  Charles 
Dix's  pious  pilgriming  to  such  an  object ;  the  poor  mother 
of  it  and  her  immense  hopes  and  pains,  I  did  not  even 


EDWARD    IRVING.  21  3 

think  of  then.  This  was  all  I  ever  saw  of  the  legitimate 
Bourbon  line,  with  which  and  its  tragedies  I  was  to  have 
more  concern  within  the  next  ten  years. 

My  reminiscences  of  Paris  and  its  old  aspects  and 
localities  were  of  visible  use  to  me  in  writing  of  the  Revo- 
lution by  and  by  ;  the  rest  could  only  be  reckoned  under 
the  head  of  amusement,  but  had  its  vague  profits  withal, 
and  still  has.  Old  Legendre,  the  mathematician  (whose 
Geometry  I  had  translated  in  Edinburgh)  was  the  only 
man  of  real  note  with  whom  I  exchanged  a  few  words ; 
a  tall,  bony,  grey  old  man,  who  received  me  with  dignity 
and  kindness  ;  introduced  me  to  his  niece,  a  brisk  little 
brown  gentlewoman  who  kept  house  for  him  ;  asked 
about  my  stay  here,  and  finding  I  w^as  just  about  to  go, 
answered  "  Diantre ! "  with  an  obliging  air  of  regret. 
His  rugged  sagacious,  sad  and  stoical  old  face  is  still 
dimly  present  with  me.  At  a  meeting  of  the  Instittit  I 
saw  and  well  remember  the  figure  of  Trismegistus  La- 
place ;  the  skirt  of  his  long  blue-silk  dressing  gown  (such 
his  costume,  unique  in  the  place,  his  age  and  his  fame 
being  also  unique)  even  touched  me  as  he  passed  on  the 
session's  rising.  He  was  tall,  thin,  clean,  serene,  his  face, 
perfectly  smooth,  as  a  healthy  man  of  fifty's,  bespoke  in- 
telligence keen  and  ardent,  rather  than  deep  or  great.  In 
the  eyes  was  a  dreamy  smile,  with  something  of  pathos 
in  it  and  perhaps  something  of  contempt.  The  session 
itself  was  profoundly  stupid  ;  some  lout  of  a  provincial 
reading  about  Vers  a  sole,  and  big  Vauquelin  the  chemist 
(noticed  by  me)  fallen  sound  asleep.  Strachey  and  I 
went  one  evening  to  call  upon  M.  de  Chezy,  Professor  of 


214  EDWARD   IRVING. 

Persic,  with  whom  he,  or  his  brother  and  he,  had  com- 
municated while  in  India.  We  found  him  high  aloft,  but 
in  a  clean  snug  apartment,  burly,  hearty,  glad  enough  to 
see  us,  only  that  Strachcy  would  speak  no  French,  and 
introduced  himself  with  some  shrill  sounding  sentence, 
the  first  word  of  which  was  clearly  salaam.  Chezy  tried 
lamely  for  a  pass  or  two  what  Persian  he  could  muster, 
but  hastened  to  get  out  of  it,  and  to  talk  even  to  me,  who 
owned  to  a  little  French,  since  Strachey  would  own  to 
none.  We  had  rather  an  amusing  twenty  minutes  ;  Chezy 
a  glowing  and  very  emphatic  man  ;  ^'  ce  Jiideux  reptile  de 
Langlcs"  was  a  phrase  he  had  once  used  to  Strachey's 
brother,  of  his  chief  French  rival  in  the  Persic  field  !  I 
heard  Cuvier  lecture  one  day ;  a  strong  German  kind  of 
face,  ditto  intelligence  as  manifested  in  the  lecture,  which 
reminded  me  of  one  of  old  Dr.  Gregory's  in  Edinburgh. 
I  was  at  a  sermon  in  Ste.  Genevieve's;  main  audience  500 
or  so  of  serving-maids ;  preacher  a  dizened  fool  in  hour- 
glass hat,  who  ran  to  and  fro  in  his  balcony  or  pulpit, 
and  seemed  much  contented  with  himself ;  heard  another 
foolish  preacher,  Protestant,  at  the  Oratoire  {console-toi, 
0  France!  on  the  death  of  Louis  Dix-huit).  Looked 
silently  into  the  Morgue  one  morning  (infinitely  better 
sermon  that  stern  old  greyhaircd  corpse  lying  there  !)  ; 
looked  into  the  Hotel  Dieu  and  its  poor  sick-beds  once  ; 
was  much  in  the  Pont-Neuf  region  {on  tond  les  chiens  et 
coupe  les  chats,  et  va  en  ville,  etc.,  etc.);  much  in  the 
Palais  Royal  and  adjacencies  ;  and  the  night  before  leav- 
ing found  I  ought  to  visit  one  theatre,  and  by  happy  acci- 
dent came  upon  Talma  playing  there.     A  heavy,  shortish 


EDWARD    IRVING.  21  5 

numb-footed  man,  face  like  a  warming-pan  for  size,  and 
with  a  strange  most  ponderous  yet  delicate  expression  in 
the  big  dull-glowing  black  eyes  and  it.  Incomparably 
the  best  actor  I  ever  saw.  Play  was  "  CEdipe "  (Vol- 
taire's very  first)  ;  place  the  Theatre  Francais.  Talma 
died  within  about  a  year  after. 

Of  the  journey  home  I  can  remember  nothinjj  but  the 
French  pitrt,  if  any  part  of  it  were  worth  remembering. 
At  Dover  I  must  still  have  found  the  Irvings,  and  poor 
outskirts  and  insignificant  fractions  of  solitary  dialogues 
on  the  Kent  shore  (far  inferior  to  our  old  Fife  ones)  have 
not  yet  entirely  vanished  ;  e.g.  strolling  together  on  the 
beach  one  evening,  we  had  repeatedly  passed  at  some 
distance  certain  building  operations,  upon  which  by  and 
by  the  bricklayers  seemed  to  be  getting  into  much  viva- 
city, crowding  round  the  last  gable  top  ;  in  fact  just  about 
finishing  their  house  then.  Irving  grasped  my  arm,  said 
in  a  low  tone  of  serious  emotion,  "  See,  they  are  going 
to  bring  out  their  topstone  with  shouting  !  "  I  enquired 
of  a  poor  man  what  it  was;  "You  see,  sir,  they  gets 
allowance,"  answered  he  ;  that  was  all — a  silent  degluti- 
tion of  some  beer.  Irving  sank  from  his  Scriptural  alti- 
tudes ;  I  no  doubt  profanely  laughing  rather.  There  are 
other  lingering  films  of  this  sort,  but  I  can  give  them  no 
date  of  before  or  after,  and  find  nothing  quite  distinct  till 
that  of  our  posting  up  to  London.  I  should  say  of  the 
Stracheys  posting,  who  took  me  as  guest,  the  Irvings 
being  now  clearly  gone.  Canterbury  and  the  (site  of  the) 
shrine  of  St.  Thomas  I  did  see,  but  it  must  have  been 
before.     We  had   a  pleasant  drive  throughout,  weather 


2i6  EDWARD   IRVING. 

Still  sunny  though  cool,  and  about  nine  or  ten  P.M.  of  the 
second  day  I  was  set  down  at  a  little  tavern  on  Shoot- 
er's Hill,  where  some  London  mail  or  diligence  soon 
picked  me  up,  and  speedily  landed  me  within  reach  of 
hospitable  Pentonville,  which  gave  me  a  welcome  like  it- 
self.    There    I    must  have  stayed   a  few   days,  and    not 

above  a  few. 

I    was   now   again    in    London    (probably   :Cbout   the 
middle   of  November) ;   hither    after    much   sad    musing 
and    moping    I    had    decided    on    returning   for    another 
while.     My  "Schiller"  (of  which  I  felt  then  the  intrin- 
sic wretchedness  or  utter  leanness  and  commonplace)  was 
to  be  stitched  together  from  the  "  London  Magazine," 
and  put  forth  with  some  trimmings  and  additions  as  a 
book  ;   lOO/.  for  it  on  publication  in  that  shape  "  (Zero  till 
then),  that  was  the  bargain  made,  and  I  had  come  to  fulfil 
that,  almost  more  uncertain  than  ever  about  all  beyond. 
I  soon  got  lodgings  in  Southampton  Street,  Ishngton,  in 
Irving's  vicinity,  and  did  henceforth  with  my  best  dili- 
gence endeavour  to  fulfil  that,  at  a  far  slower  rate  than  I 
had  expected.     I  frequently  called  on  Irving  (he  never  or 
not  often  on  me,  which  I  did  not  take  amiss),  and  fre- 
quently saw  him   otherwise,   but   have    already   written 
down  miscellaneously  most   of  the   remembrances   that 
belong  to  this  specific  date  of  months.     On  the  whole, 
I  think  now  he  felt  a  good  deal  unhappy,  probably  get- 
ting deeper  and  deeper  sunk  in  manifold  cares  of  his  own, 
and  that  our  communications  had  not  the  old  copious- 
ness and  flowing  freedom  ;  nay,  that  even  since  I  left  for 
Birmingham  there  was  perhaps  a  diminution.     London 


EDWARD   IRVING.  217 

"  pulpit  popularity,"  the  smoke  of  that  foul  witches'  caul- 
dron :  there  was  never  anything  else  to  blame.  I  stuck 
rigorously  to  my  work,  to  my  Badams  regimen,  though 
it  did  but  little  for  me,  but  I  was  sick  of  body  and  of 
mind,  in  endless  dubiety,  very  desolate  and  miserable, 
and  the  case  itself,  since  nobody  could  help,  admonished 
me  to  silence.  One  day  on  the  road  down  to  Battle 
Bridge  I  remember  recognising  Irving's  broad  hat,  atop 
amid  the  tide  of  passengers,  and  his  little  child  sitting  on 
his  arm,  wife  probably  near  by.  "  Why  should  I  hurry 
up  ?  They  are  parted  from  me,  the  old  days  are  no 
more,"  was  my  sad  reflection  in  my  sad  humour. 

Another  morning,  what  was  wholesomer  and  better, 
happening  to  notice,  as  I  stood  looking  out  on  the  bit  of 
green  under  my  bedroom  window,  a  trim  and  rather  pretty 
hen  actively  paddling  about  and  picking  up  what  food 
might  be  discoverable.  "  See,"  I  said  to  myself;  "  look, 
thou  fool  !  Here  is  a  two-legged  creature  with  scarcely 
half  a  thimbleful  of  poor  brains  ;  thou  call'st  thyself  a  man 
with  nobody  knows  how  much  brain,  and  reason  dwelling 
in  it ;  and  behold  how  the  one  life  is  regulated  and  how 
the  other  !  In  God's  name  concentrate,  collect  whatever 
of  reason  thou  hast,  and  direct  it  on  the  one  thing  need- 
ful. Irving,  when  we  did  get  into  intimate  dialogue,  was 
affectionate  to  me  as  ever,  and  had  always  to  the  end  a 
great  deal  of  sense  and  insight  into  things  about  him,  but 
he  could  not  much  help  me  ;  how  could  anybody  but  my- 
self? By  degrees  I  was  doing  so,  taking  counsel  of  that 
symbolic  Hen  !  and  settling  a  good  few  things.  First, 
and  most  of  all,  that  I  would,  renouncing  ambitions,  "  fine 


2l8  EDWARD    IRVING. 

openings,"  and  the  advice  of  all  bystanders  and  friends, 
who  didn't  kiiozu  ;  go  hojne  to  Annandale,  were  this  work 
done  ;  provide  myself  a  place  where  I  could  ride,  follow 
regimen,  and  be  free  of  noises  (which  were  unendurable) 
till  if  possible  I  could  recover  a  little  health.  Much  fol- 
lowed out  of  that,  iill  manner  of  adjustments  gathering 
round  it.  As  head  of  these  latter  I  had  offered  to  let  my 
dearest  be  free  of  me,  and  of  any  virtual  engagement  she 
might  think  there  was  ;  but  she  would  not  hear  of  it,  not 
of  that,  the  noble  soul!  but  stood  resolved  to  share  my 
dark  lot  along  with  me,  be  it  what  it  might.  Alas,  her 
love  was  never  completely  known  to  me,  and  how  celes- 
tial it  was,  till  I  had  lost  her.  "  O  for  five  minutes  more 
of  her !  "  I  have  often  said,  since  April  last,  to  tell  her 
with  what  perfect  love  and  admiration,  as  of  the  beauti- 
fullest  of  known  human  souls,  I  did  intrinsically  always 
regard  her!  But  all  minutes  of  the  time  are  inexorably 
past  ;  be  wise,  all  ye  living,  and  remember  that  iimQ passes 
and  does  not  return. 

Apart  from  regular  work  upon  "Schiller,"  I  had  a 
good  deal  of  talking  with  people  and  social  moving  about 
which  was  not  disagreeable.  With  Allan  Cunningham  I 
had  made  ready  acquaintance  ;  a  cheerful  social  man  ; 
"  solid  Dumfries  mason  with  a  surface  polish  given  him," 
was  one  good  judge's  definition  years  afterwards  !  He  got 
at  once  into  NitJisdalc  when  you  talked  with  him,  which 
though  he  was  clever  and  satirical,  I  didn't  very  much 
enjoy.  Allan  had  sense  and  shrewdness  on  all  points, 
especially  the  practical  ;  but  out  of  Nithsdale,  except  for 
his   perennial    good-humour    and    quiet    cautions    (which 


EDWARD   IRVING.  219 

might  have  been  exemplary  to  me)  was  not  instructive. 
I  was  at  the  christening  of  one  of  Allan's  children  over  in 
Irving's,  where  there  was  a  cheery  evening,  and  the  Cun- 
ninghams to  sleep  there  ;  one  other  of  the  guests,  a 
pleasant  enough  Yorkshire  youth,  going  with  me  to  a 
spare  room  I  could  command.  My  conmionest  walk  was 
fieldward,  or  down  into  the  city  (by  many  different  old 
lanes  and  routes),  more  rarely  by  Portland  Place  (Fitzroy 
Square  and  Mrs.  Strachey's  probably  first),  to  Piccadilly 
and  the  West  End.  One  muddy  evening  there  came  to 
me,  what  enlightened  all  the  mirk  and  mud,  by  the  Her- 
ren  Grafen  von  Bentincks*  servant,  a  short  letter  from 
Goethe  in  Weimar  !  It  was  in  answer  to  the  copy  of 
"  Wilhelm  Meister  "  which  (doubtless  with  some  reverent 
bit  of  note),  I  had  despatched  to  him  six  months  ago, 
without  answer  till  now.  He  was  kind  though  distant 
brief,  apologised,  by  his  great  age  {Jiohen  JaJireii)  for  the 
delay,  till  at  length  the  Herren  Grafen  von  Bentincks'  pas- 
sage homewards  had  operated  on  him  as  a  hint  to  do  the 
needful,  and  likewise  to  procure  for  both  parties,  Herren 
Grafen  and  self,  an  agreeable  acquaintance,  of  which  latter 
naturally  neither  I  nqr  the  Herren  Grafen  ever  heard  more. 
Some  twenty  years  afterwards  a  certain  Lord  George 
Bentinck,  whom  newspapers  called  the  "'  stable  minded  " 
from  his  previous  /«r/"  propensities,  suddenly  quitting  all 
these  and  taking  to  statistics  and  Tory  politics,  became 
famous  or  noisy  for  a  good  few  months,  chiefly  by  intri- 
cate statistics  and  dull  vehemence,  so  far  as  I  could  see, 
a  stupid  enough  phenomenon  for  me,  till  he  suddenly 
died,  poor  gentleman  !     I  then  remembered  that  this  was 


220  EDWARD    IRVING. 

probably  one  of  the  Herren  Grafcn  von  Bcntinck  whose 
acquaintance  I  had  missed  as  above. 

One  day  Irving  took  me  with  him  on  a  curious  httle 
errand  he  had.  It  was  a  bright  summer  morning  ;  must 
therefore  have  preceded  the  Birmingham  and  Dover 
period.  His  errand  was  this.  A  certain  loquacious  ex- 
tensive Glasgow  publisher '  was  in  London  for  several 
weeks  on  business,  and  often  came  to  Irving,  wasting  (as 
I  used  to  think)  a  good  deal  of  his  time  in  zealous  dis- 
course about  many  vague  things  ;  in  particular  about  the 
villany  of  common  publishers,  how  for  example,  on  their 
"  half  profits  system,"  they  would  show  the  poor  authors 
a  printer's  account  pretending  to  be  paid  in  full,  printer's 
signature  visibly  appended,  printer  having  really  touched 
a  sum  less  by  25  per  cent.,  and  sic  de  ccetcris.  All  an  ar- 
ranged juggle  to  cheat  the  poor  author,  and  sadly  con- 
vince him  that  his  moiety  was  nearly  or  altogether  Zero 
divided  by  two  !  Irving  could  not  believe  it ;  denied 
stoutly  on  behalf  of  his  own  printer,  one  Bensley,  a  noted 
man  in  his  craft,  and  getting  nothing  but  negatory  smiles 
and  kindly  but  inexorable  contradiction,  said  he  would  go 
next  morning  and  see.  We  walked  along  somewhere 
liolbornwards,  found  Bensley  and  wife  in  a  bright,  quiet, 
comfortable  room,  just  finishing  breakfast ;  a  fattish,  solid, 
rational,  and  really  amiable-looking  pair  of  people,  espe- 
cially the  wife,  who  had  a  plump,  cheerfully  experienced 
matronly  air.  By  both  of  whom  we,  i.e.  Irving  (for  I  had 
nothing  to  do  but  be  silent)  were  warmly  and  honourably 

'  Dr.  Chalmers's  especially  ;  had  been  a  schoolmaster ;  Collin  perhaps  his 
name. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  221 

welcomed,  and  constrained  at  least  to  sit,  since  we  would 
do  nothing  better,  Irving  with  grave  courtesy  laid  the 
case  before  Bensley,  perhaps  showed  him  his  old  signa- 
ture and  account,  and  asked  if  that  was  or  was  not  really 
the  sum  he  had  received.  Bensley,  with  body  and  face 
writhed  uneasily  ;  evidently  loth  to  lie,  but  evidently 
obliged  by  the  laws  of  trade  to  do  it.  "Yes,  on  the 
whole,  that  was  the  sum  !  "  upon  which  we  directly  went 
our  ways  ;  both  of  us  convinced,  I  believe,  though  only 
one  of  us  said  so.  Irving  had  a  high  opinion  of  men,  and 
was  always  mortified  when  he  found  it  in  any  instance  no 
longer  tenable. 

Irving  was  sorrowfully  occupied  at  this  period,  as  I 
now  perceive,  in  scanning  and  surveying  the  tvrong  side 
of  that  immense  popularity,  the  outer  or  right  side  of 
which  had  been  so  splendid  and  had  given  rise  to  such 
sacred  and  glorious  hopes.  The  crowd  of  people  flocking 
round  him  continued  in  abated  but  still  superabundant 
quantity  and  vivacity  ;  but  it  was  not  of  the  old  high 
quality  any  more.  The  thought  that  the  Christian  reli- 
gion was  again  to  dominate  all  minds,  and  the  world  to 
become  an  Eden  by  his  thrice-blessed  means,  was  fatally 
declaring  itself  to  have  been  a  dream  ;  and  he  would  not 
consent  to  believe  it  such  :  never  he  !  That  was  the  se- 
cret of  his  inward  quasi-desperate  resolutions  ;  out  into 
the  wild  struggles  and  clutchings  towards  the  unattainable, 
the  unregainable,  which  were  more  and  more  conspicuous 
in  the  sequel.  He  was  now,  I  gradually  found,  listening 
to  certain  interpreters  of  prophecy,  thinking  to  cast  his 
own  great  faculty  into  that  hopeless  quagmire  along  with 


222  EDWARD   IRVING. 

thcni.  These  and  the  like  resolutions,  and  the  dark  hu- 
mour which  was  the  mother  of  them,  had  been  on  the 
o-rowincf  hand  durinsf  all  this  first  London  visit  of  mine, 
and  were  fast  coming  to  outward  development  by  the 
time  I  left  for  Scotland  again. 

About  the  beginning  of  March  1825  I  had  at  length, 
after  fierce  struggling  and  various  disappointments  from 
the  delay  of  others,  got  my  poor  business  winded  up  ; 
"  Schiller  "  published,  paid  for,  left  to  the  natural  neglect 
of  mankind  (which  was  perfect  so  far  as  I  ever  heard  or 
much  cared),  and  in  humble,  but  condensed  resolute  and 
quiet  humour  was  making  my  bits  of  packages,  bidding 
my  poor  adieus,  just  in  act  to  go.  Everybody  thought 
me  headstrong  and  foolish  ;  Irving  less  so  than  others, 
though  he  too  could  have  no  understanding  of  my  dys- 
peptic miseries,  my  intolerable  sufferings  from  noises,  etc., 
etc.  He  was  always  kind,  and  spoke  hope  if  personal 
topics  turned  up.  Perhaps  it  was  the  very  day  before 
my  departure,  at  least  it  is  the  last  I  recollect  of  him,  we 
were  walking  in  the  streets  multifariously  discoursing:  a 
dim  grey  day,  but  dry  and  airy.  At  the  corner  of  Cock- 
spur  Street  we  paused  for  a  moment,  meeting  Sir  John 
Sinclair  ("  Statistical  Account  of  Scotland,"  etc.),  whom 
I  had  never  seen  before  and  never  saw  again.  A  lean 
old  man,  tall  but  stooping,  in  tartan  cloak,  face  very 
wrinkly,  nose  blue,  physiognomy  vague  and  with  distinc- 
tion as  one  might  have  expected  it  to  be.  He  spoke  to 
Irving  with  benignant  respect,  whether  to  me  at  all  I  don't 
recollect.  A  little  farther  on  in  Parliament  Street,  some- 
where near  the  Admiralty  (that  now  is,  and  perhaps  then 


EDWARD   IRVING.  22 


O 


was),  we  ascended  certain  stairs,  narrow  newish  wooden 
staircase  the  last  of  them,  and  came  into  a  bare,  clean, 
comfortless,  official  little  room  (fire  gone  out),  where  an 
elderly  official  little  gentleman  was  seated  within  rails, 
busy  in  the  red-tape  line.  This  was  the  Honourable 
Something  or  other,  great  in  Scripture  prophecy ;  in 
which  he  had  started  some  sublime  new  idea,  well  worth 
prosecuting  as  Irving  had  assured  me.  Their  mutual 
greetings  were  cordial  and  respectful  ;  and  a  lively  dia- 
logue ensued  on  prophetic  matters,  especially  on  the  sub- 
lime new  idea  ;  I,  strictly  unparticipant,  sitting  silently 
apart  till  it  was  done.  The  Honourable  Something  had  a 
look  of  perfect  politeness,  perfect  silliness  ;  his  face, 
heavily  wrinkled,  went  smiling  and  shuttling  about  at  a 
wonderful  rate  ;  and  in  the  smile  there  seemed  to  me  to 
be  lodged  a  frozen  sorrow,  as  if  bordering  on  craze.  On 
coming  out  I  asked  Irving,  perhaps  too  markedly,  "  Do 
you  really  think  that  gentleman  can  throw  any  light  to  you 
on  anything  whatever?  "  To  which  he  answered  good- 
naturedly,  but  in  a  grave  tone,  "  Yes,  I  do."  Of  which 
the  fruits  were  seen  before  long.  This  is  the  last  thin";  I 
can  recollect  of  Irving  in  my  London  visit ;  except  per- 
haps some  grey  shadow  of  him  giving  me  "  Farewell" 
with  express  "  blessing." 

I  paused  some  days  at  Birmingham  ;  got  rich  gifts 
sent  after  me  by  Mrs.  Strachey ;  beautiful  desk,  gold 
pencil,  etc.,  which  were  soon  Another's,  ah  me  !  and  are 
still  here.  I  saw  Manchester  too,  for  the  first  time 
(strange  bagman  ways  in  the  Palace  Inn  there)  ;  walked 
to  Oldham  ;  savage-looking  scene  of  Sunday  morning  ; 


224  EDWARD   IRVING. 

old  schoolfellow  of  mine,  very  stupid  but  ver3'kind,  being 
Curate  there.  Shot  off  too  over  the  Yorkshire  moors  to 
Marsden,  where  another  boy  and  college  friend  of  mine 
was  (George  Johnson,  since  surgeon  in  Gloucester)  ;  and 
spent  three  dingy  but  impressive  days  in  poking  into 
those  mute  wildernesses  and  their  rough  habitudes  and 
populations.  At  four  o'clock,  in  my  Palace  Inn  (Boots 
having  forgotten  me),  awoke  by  good  luck  of  myself,  and 
saved  my  place  on  the  coach  roof.  Remember  the  Black- 
burns,  Boltons,  and  their  smoke  clouds,  to  right  and  left 
grimly  black,  and  the  grey  March  winds  ;  Lancashire  was 
not  all  smoky  then,  but  only  smoky  in  parts.  Remember 
the  Bush  Inn  at  Carlisle,  and  quiet  luxurious  shelter  it 
yielded  for  the  night,  much  different  from  now.  ("  Betty, 
a  pan  o'  cooals  !  "  shouted  the  waiter,  an  Eskdale  man  by 
dialect,  and  in  five  minutes  the  trim  Betty  had  done  her 
feat,  and  your  clean  sleek  bed  was  comfortably  warm). 
At  Ecclefechan,  next  day,  within  two  miles  or  so  of  my 
father's,  while  the  coach  w%is  changing  horses,  I  noticed 
through  the  window  my  little  sister  Jean  earnestl}^  looking 
up  for  me ;  she,  with  Jenny,  the  youngest  of  us  all, 
was  at  school  in  the  village,  and  had  come  out  daily  of 
late  to  inspect  the  coach  in  hope  of  me,  always  in  vain 
till  this  day;  her  bonny  little  blush  and  radiancy  of  look 
when  I  let  down  the  window  and  suddenly  disclosed  my- 
self are  still  present  to  me.  In  four  days'  time  I  now 
(December  2,  1866,  hope  to  see  this  brave  Jean  again 
(now  "  Mrs.  Aitken,"  from  Dumfries,  and  a  hardy,  hearty 
wife  and  mother).  Jenny,  poor  little  thing,  has  had  her 
crosses  and  difficulties,  but  has  managed  them  well  ;  and 


EDWARD   IRVING.  22$ 

now  lives,  contented  enough  and  industrious  as  ever,  with 
husband  and  three  or  two  daughters,  in  Hamilton,  Canada 
West,  not  far  from  which  are  my  brother  Alick  too,  and 
others  dear  to  me.  "  Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  " 
— such,  with  result  or  without  it,  are  our  wanderings  in 
this  world."  • 

My  poor  little  establishment  at  Hoddam  Hill '  (close 
by  the  "  Tower  of  Repentance,"  as  if  symbolically  !)  I  do 
not  mean  to  speak  of  here  ;  a  neat  compact  little  farm, 
rent  lOo/.,  which  my  father  had  leased  for  me,  on  which 
was  a  prettyish-looking  cottage  for  dwelling-house  (had 
been  the  factor's  place,  who  was  retiring),  and  from  the 
windows  such  a  "view"  (fifty  miles  in  radius,  from  be- 
yond Tyndale  to  beyond  St.  Bees,  Solway  Frith,  and  all 
the  fells  to  Ingleborough  inclusive),  as  Britain  or  the 
world  could  hardly  have  matched  !  Here  the  ploughing, 
etc.  etc.  was  already  in  progress  (which  I  often  rode 
across  to  see),  and  here  at  term  day  (May  26,  1825)  I  es- 
tablished myself,  set  up  my  books  and  bits  of  implements 
and  Lares,  and  took  to  doing  "  German  Romance"  as  my 
daily  work,  "  ten  pages  daily"  my  stint,  which,  barring 
some  rare  accidents,  I  faithfully  accomplished.  Brother 
Alick  was  my  practical  fanner ;  ever-kind  and  beloved 
mother,  with  one  of  the  little  girls,  was  generally  there  ; 
brother  John,  too,  oftenest,  who  had  just  taken  his  degree. 
These,  with  a  little  man  and  ditto  maid,  were  our  estab- 
lishment. It  lasted  only  one  year,  owing,  I  believe,  to 
indistinctness  of  bargain  first  of  all,  and  then  to  arbitrary 

'  A  house  with  small  farm  attached,  three  miles  from  Mainhill,  and  visible 
from  the  fields  at  the  back  of  it. 


226  EDWARD   IRVING. 

hi<di-hanclcd  temper  of  our  landlord  (used  to  a  rather 
prostrate  style  of  obedience,  and  not  finding  it  liere,  but 
a  polite  appeal  to  fair-play  instead).  One  whole  summer 
and  autumn  were  defaced  by  a  great  deal  of  paltry  bother 
on  that  head,  superadded  to  the  others ;  and  at  last, 
least  of  Mainhill,  tcTo,  being  nearly  out,  it  was  decided  to 
quit  said  landloi'd's  territories  altogether,  and  so  end  his 
controversies  with  us. 

Next  26th  of  May  we  went  all  of  us  to  Scotsbrig  (a 
much  better  farm,  which  was  now  bidden  for  and  got), 
and  where,  as  turned  out,  I  continued  only  a  few  months, 
wedded,  and  to  Edinburgh  in  October  following.  Ah 
me  !  what  a  retrospect  now  ! 

With  all  its  manifold  petty  troubles,  this  year  at  Hod- 
dam  Hill  has  a  rustic  beauty  and  dignity  to  mc,  and  lies 
now  like  a  not  ignoble  russet-coated  idyll  in  my  memory; 
one  of  the  quietest,  on  the  whole,  and  perhaps  the  most 
triumphantly  important  of  my  life.  I  lived  very  silent, 
diligent,  had  long  solitary  rides  (on  my  wild  Irish  horse 
"  Larry,"  good  for  the  dietetic  part),  my  meditatings, 
musings,  and  reflections  were  continual ;  my  thoughts 
went  wandering  (or  travelling)  through  eternity,  through 
time,  and  through  space,  so  far  as  poor  I  had  scanned  or 
known,  and  were  now  to  my  endless  solacement  coming 
back  with  tidings  to  me  !  This  year  I  found  that  I  had 
conquered  all  my  scepticisms,  agonising  doubtings,  fear- 
ful wrestlings  with  the  foul  and  vile  and  soul-murdering 
Mud-gods  of  my  epoch  ;  had  escaped  as  from  a  worse 
than  Tartarus,  with  all  its  Phlegethons  and  Stygian  quag- 
mires, and  was  emerging  free  in  spirit  into  the  eternal 


EDWARD   IRVING.  22/ 

blue  of  ether,  where,  blessed  be  heaven  !  I  have  for  the 
spiritual  part  ever  since  lived,  looking  down  upon  the 
welterings  of  my  poor  fellow-creatures,  in  such  multitudes 
and  millions  still  stuck  in  that  fatal  element,  and  have  had 
no  concern  whatever  in  their  Puseyisms,  ritualisms,  meta- 
physical controversies  and  cobwebberies,  and  no  feeling 
of  my  own  except  honest  silent  pity  for  the  serious  or  re- 
ligious part  of  them,  and  occasional  indignation,  for  the 
poor  world's  sake,  at  the  frivolous  secular  and  impious 
part,  with  their  universal  suffrages,  their  Nigger  emanci- 
pations, sluggard  and  scoundrel  Protection  societies,  and 
"unexampled  prosperities"  for  the  time  being!  What 
my  pious  joy  and  gratitude  then  was,  let  the  pious  soul 
figure.  In  a  fine  and  veritable  sense,  I,  poor,  obscure, 
without  outlook,  almost  without  worldly  hope,  had  be- 
come independent  of  the  world.  What  was  death  itself, 
from  the  world,  to  what  I  had  come  through  ?  I  under- 
stood well  what  the  old  Christian  people  meant  by  "  con- 
version" by  God's  infinite  mercy  to  them.  I  had,  in 
effect,  gained  an  immense  victory,  and  for  a  number  of 
years  had,  in  spite  of  nerves  and  chagrins,  a  constant  in- 
ward happiness  that  was  quite  royal  and  supreme,  in 
which  all  temporal  evil  was  transient  and  insignificant, 
and  which  essentially  remains  with  me  still,  though  far 
oftener  eclipsed  d.'^^  lying  deeper  doivn  than  then.  Once 
more,  thank  Heaven  for  its  highest  gift.  I  then  felt,  and 
still  feel,  endlessly  indebted  to  Goethe  in  the  business. 
He,  in  his  fashion,  I  perceived,  had  travelled  the  steep 
rocky  road  before  me,  the  first  of  the  moderns.  Bodily 
health  itself  seemed  improving.     Bodily  health  was  all  I 


228  EDWARD   IRVING, 

had  really  lost  in  this  grand  spiritual  battle  now  gained  ; 
and  that,  too,  I  may  have  hoped  would  gradually  return 
altogether,  which  it  never  did,  and  was  far  enough  from 
doing  !  Meanwhile  my  thoughts  were  very  peaceable,  full 
of  pity  anli  humanity  as  they  had  never  been  before. 
Nowhere  can  I  recollect  of  myself  such  pious  musings,  com- 
munings silent  and  spontaneous  with  Fact  and  Nature,  as 
in  these  poor  Annandale  localities.  The  sound  of  the  kirk- 
bell  once  or  twice  on  Sunday  mornings,  from  Hoddam  kirk, 
about  a  mile  off  on  the  plain  below  me,  was  strangely 
touching,  like  the  departing  voice  of  eighteen  hundred 
j'^ears.  Frank  Dickson  at  rare  intervals  called  in  passing. 
Nay,  once  for  about  ten  days  my  dearest  and  beautifullest 
herself  came  across  out  of  Nithsdale  to  "  pay  my  mother 
a  visit,"  when  she  gained  all  hearts,  and  we  mounted  our 
swift  little  horses  and  careered  about  !  No  wonder  I  call 
that  year  idyllic,  in  spite  of  its  russet  coat.  My  darling 
and  I  were  at  the  Grange  (Mrs.  Johnston's),  at  Annan 
(Mrs.  Dickson's),  and  we  rode  together  to  Dumfries, 
where  her  aunts  and  grandmother  were,  whom  she  was  to 
pause  with  on  this  her  road  home  to  Templand.*  How 
beautiful,  how  sad  and  strange  all  that  now  looks  !  Her 
beautiful  little  heart  was  evidently  much  cast  down,  right 
sorry  to  part,  though  we  hoped  it  was  but  for  some  short 
while.  I  remember  the  heights  of  Mousewold,  with 
Dumfries  and  the  granite  mountains  lying  in  panorama 
seven  or  eight  miles  off  to  our  left,  and  what  she  artlessly 
yet  finely  said  to  me  there.  Oh,  my  darling,  not  Andro- 
mache dressed  in  all  the  art  of  a  Racine  looks  more  high 
'  House  in  Nithsdale  where  Miss  Urleli's  grandfather  lived. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  229 

and  queenly  to  me,  or  is  more  of  a  tragic  poem  than  thou 
and  thy  noble  pilgrimage  beside  me  in  this  poor  thorny 
muddy  world  ! 

I  had  next  to  no  direct  correspondence  with  Irving  ; 
a  little  note  or  so  on  business,  nothing  more.  Nor  was 
Mrs.  Montague  much  more  instructive  on  that  head,  who 
wrote  me  high-sounding  amiable  things  which  I  could  not 
but  respond  to  more  or  less,  though  dimly  aware  of  their 
quality.  Nor  did  the  sincere  and  ardent  Mrs.  Strachey, 
who  wrote  seldomer,  almost  ever  touch  upon  Irving ;  but 
by  some  occasional  unmelodious  clajtg  in  all  the  news- 
papers (twice  over  I  think  in  this  year),  we  could  suffi- 
ciently and  with  little  satisfaction  construe  his  way  of  life. 
Twice  over  he  had  leaped  the  barrier,  and  given  rise  to 
criticism  of  the  customary  idle  sort,  loudish  universally, 
and  nowhere  accurately  just.  Case  first  was  of  preaching 
to  the  London  Missionary  Society  ("  Missionary  "  I  will 
call  it,  though  it  might  be  "  Bible  "  or  another).  On  their 
grand  anniversary  these  people  had  appointed  to  him  the 
honour  of  addressing  them,  and  were  numerously  assem- 
bled expecting  some  flourishes  of  eloquence  and  flatteries 
to  their  illustrious  divinely-blessed  Society,  ingeniously 
done  and  especially  with  fit  brevity,  dinner  itself  waiting, 
I  suppose,  close  in  the  rear.  Irving  emerged  into  his 
speaking  place  at  the  due  moment,  but  instead  of  treat- 
ing men  and  office-bearers  to  a  short  comfortable  dose  of 
honey  and  butter,  opened  into  strict  sharp  enquiries, 
Rhadamanthine  expositions  of  duty  and  ideal,  issuing  per- 
haps in  actual  criticism  and  admonition,  gall  and  vinegar 
instead  of  honey ;  at  any  rate  keeping  the  poor  people 


230  EDWARD   IRVING. 

locked  up  there  for  "above  two  hours"  instead  of  one 
hour  or  less,  with  dinner  Jiot  at  the  end  of  it.  This  was 
much  criticised;  "plainly  wrong,  and  produced  by  love 
of  singularity  and  too  much  pride  in  oneself,"  voted 
everybody.  For,  in  fact,  a  man  suddenly  holding  up  the 
naked  inexorable  Ideal  in  face  of  the  clothed,  and  in  Eng- 
land generally  plump,  comfortable,  and  pot-bellied  Real- 
ity, is  doing  an  unexpected  and  a  questionable  thing  ! 

The  next  escapade  was  still  worse.  At  some  public 
meeting,  of  probably  the  same  "  Missionary  Society," 
Irving  again  held  up  his  ideal,  I  think  not  without  mur- 
murs from  former  sufferers  by  it,  and  ended  by  solemnly 
putting  down,  not  his  name  to  the  subscription  list,  but 
an  actual  gold  watch,  which  he  said  had  just  arrived  to 
him  from  his  beloved  brother  lately  dead  in  India.'  That 
of  the  gold  watch  tabled  had  in  reality  a  touch  of  rash 
ostentation,  and  was  bitterly  crowed  over  by  the  able 
editors  for  a  time.  On  the  whole  one  could  gather  too 
clearly  that  Irving's  course  was  beset  with  pitfalls,  barking 
dogs,  and  dangers  and  difficulties  unwarned  of,  and  that 
for  one  who  took  so  little  counsel  with  prudence  he  per- 
haps carried  his  head  too  high.  I  had  a  certain  harsh 
kind  of  sorrow  about  poor  Irving,  and  my  loss  of  him 
(and  his  loss  of  me  on  such  poor  terms  as  these  seemed  to 

'  This  brother  was  John,  the  eldest  of  the  three,  an  Indian  army  surgeon, 
whom  I  remember  once  meeting  on  a  "  common  stair  "  in  Edinburgh,  on  re- 
turn I  suppose  from  some  call  on  a  comrade  higher  up ;  a  taller  man  than 
even  Edward,  and  with  a  blooming,  placid,  not  very  intelligent  face,  and  no 
squint,  whom  I  easily  recognised  by  family  likeness,  but  never  saw  again  or 
before. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  23 1 

be  !)  but  I  carelessly  trusted  in  his  strength  against  what- 
ever mistakes  and  impediments,  and  felt  that  for  the  pres- 
ent it  was  better  to  be  absolved  from  corresponding  with 
him. 

That  same  year,  late  in  autumn,  he  was  at  Annan, 
only  for  a  night  and  day,  returning  from  some  farther  jour- 
ney, perhaps  to  Glasgow  or  Edinburgh;  and  had  to  go  on 
again  for  London  next  day.  I  rode  down  from  Hoddam 
Hill  before  nightfall ;  found  him  sitting  in  the  snug  little 
parlour  beside  his  father  and  mother,  beautifully  domestic. 
I  think  it  was  the  last  time  I  ever  saw  those  good  old  peo- 
ple. We  sate  only  a  few  minutes,  my  thoughts  sadly 
contrasting  the  beautiful  affectionate  safety  here,  and  the 
wild  tempestuous  hostilities  and  perils  yonder.  He  left 
his  blessing  to  each,  by  name,  in  a  low  soft  voice.  There 
was  something  almost  tragical  to  me  as  he  turned  round 
(hitting  his  hat  on  the  little  door  lintel),  and  next  moment 
was  on  the  dark  street,  followed  only  by  me.  We  stept 
over  to  Robert  Dickson's,  his  brother-in-law's,  and  sat 
there,  still  talking,  for  perhaps  an  hour.  Probably  his  plan 
of  journey  was  to  catch  the  Glasgow-London  mail  at 
Gretna,  and  to  walk  thither,  the  night  being  dry  and  time 
at  discretion. 

Walk  I  remember  he  did,  and  talk  in  the  interim  (three 
or  at  most  four  of  us  now),  not  in  the  least  downhearted. 
Told  us,  probably  in  answer  to  some  question  of  mine, 
that  the  projected  "  London  University  "  (now  of  Gower 
Street)  seemed  to  be  progressing  towards  fulfilment,  and 
how  at  some  meeting  Poet  Campbell,  arguing  loudly  for 
a  purely  secular  system,  had,  on  sight  of  Irving  entering, 


233  EDWARD   IRVING. 

at  once  stopt  short,  and  in  the  poHtcst  way  he  could,  sate 
down,  without  another  word  on  the  subject.  "  It  will  be 
unreligious,  secretly  anti-religious  all  the  same,"  said 
Irvin"-  to  us.  Whether  he  reported  of  the  projected 
Athenaeum  Club  (dear  to  Basil  Montague,  among  others), 
I  don't  recollect ;  probably  not,  as  he  or  I  had  little  in- 
terest in  that.  When  the  time  had  come  for  setting  out, 
and  we  were  all  on  foot,  he  called  for  his  three  little 
nieces,  having  their  mother  by  him  ;  had  them  each  suc- 
cessively set  standing  on  a  chair,  laid  his  hand  on  the 
head  first  of  one,  with  a  "  M<?ry  Dickson,  the  Lord  bless 
you  !  "  then  of  the  next  by  name,  and  of  the  next,  "  The 
Lord  bless  you  !  "  in  a  sad  and  solemn  tone  (with  some- 
thing of  elaborate  noticeable  in  it,  too),  which  was  painful 
and  dreary  to  me.  A  dreary  visit  altogether,  though  an 
unabatedly  affectionate  on  both  sides.  In  what  a  contrast, 
thought  I,  to  the  old  sunshiny  visits,  when  Glasgow  was 
headquarters,  and  everybody  was  obscure,  frank  to  his 
feelings,  and  safe  !  Mrs.  Dickson,  I  think,  had  tears  in  her 
eyes.  Her,  too,  he  doubtless  blessed,  but  without  hand 
on  head.  Dickson  and  the  rest  of  us  escorted  him  a  little 
way ;  would  then  take  leave  in  the  common  form  ;  but 
even  that  latter  circumstance  I  do  not  perfectly  recall, 
only  the  fact  of  our  escorting,  and  before  the  visit  and 
after  it  all  is  now  fallen  dark. 

Irving  did  not  re-emerge  for  many  months,  and  found 
me  then  in  very  greatly  changed  circumstances.  His  next 
visit  was  to  us  at   Comley  Bank,'  Edinburgh,  not  to  7ne 

'  Where  Carlyle  and  liis  wife  lived  for   the  first   eighteen  months  after 
their  marriage. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  233 

any  longer  !  It  was  probably  in  spring,  1827,  a  visit  of 
only  half  an  hour,  more  resembling  a  "call"  from  neigh- 
bour on  neighbour.  I  think  it  was  connected  with 
Scripture  prophecy  work,  in  which  he  was  now  deep. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  now  preaching  and  communing  on 
something  or  other  to  numbers  of  people  in  Edinburgh, 
and  we  had  heard  of  him  for  perhaps  a  week  before  as 
shiningly  busy  in  that  way,  when  in  some  interval  he 
made  this  little  run  over  to  Comley  Bank  and  us.  He 
was  very  friendly,  but  had  a  look  of  trouble,  of  haste,  and 
confused  controversy  and  anxiety,  sadly  unlike  his  old 
good  self.  In  dialect,  too,  and  manner,  things  had  not 
bettered  themselves,  but  the  contrary.  He  talked  with  an 
undeniable  self-consciousness,  and  something  which  you 
could  not  but  admit  to  be  religious  mannerism.  Never 
quite  recovered  out  of  that,  in  spite  of  our,  especially 
of  her,  efforts  while  he  stayed.  At  parting  he  proposed 
"to  pray"  with  us,  and  did,  in  standing  posture,  ignor- 
ing or  conscientiously  defying  our  pretty  evident  reluc- 
tance. "Farewell!"  he  said  soon  after;  "I  must  go 
then  and  suffer  persecution  as  my  fathers  have  done." 
Much  painful  contradiction  he  evidently  had  from  the 
world  about  him,  but  also  much  zealous  favour  ;  and  was 
going  that  same  evening  to  a  public  dinner  given  in  hon- 
our of  him,  as  we  and  everybody  knew. 

This  was,  I  think,  the  nadir  of  my  poor  Irving,  veiled 
and  hooded  in  these  miserable  manifold  crapes  and  for- 
mulas, so  that  his  brave  old  self  never  once  looked  fairly 
through,  which  had  not  been  nor  was  again  quite  the 
case  in  any  other  visit  or  interview.     It  made  one  drearily 


234  EDWARD   IRVING. 

sad.  "  Dreary,"  that  was  the  word  ;  and  we  had  to  con- 
sider ourselves  as  not  a  little  divorced  from  him,  and  bid- 
den "shift  for  yourselves." 

We  saw  him  once  again  in  Scotland,  at  Craigenput- 
toch,'  and  had  him  for  a  night,  or  I  almost  think  for  two, 
on  greatly  improved  terms.  He  was  again  on  some  kind 
of  church  business,  but  it  seemed  to  be  of  cheerfuller  and 
wider  scope  than  that  of  Scriptural  prophecy  last  time, 
Glasgow  was  now  his  goal,  with  frequent  preaching  as  he 
went  along,  the  regular  clergy  actively  countenancing.  I 
remember  dining  with  him  at  our  parish  minister's,  good 
Mr.  Bryden's,  with  certain  Reverends  of  the  neighbour- 
hood (the  Dow  of  "  Irongray  "  one  of  them,  who  after- 
wards went  crazy  on  the  "  Gift  of  Tongues  "  affair).  I 
think  it  must  have  been  from  Bryden's  that  I  brought  him 
up  to  Craigenputtoch,  where  he  was  quite  alone  with  us, 
and  franker  and  happier  than  I  had  seen  him  for  a  long 
time.  It  was  beautiful  summer  weather,  pleasant  to 
saunter  in  with  old  friends  in  the  safe  green  solitudes,  no 
sound  audible  but  that  of  our  own  voices,  and  of  the  birds 
and  woods.  He  talked  to  me  of  Henry  Drummond  as 
of  a  fine,  a  great,  evangelical,  yet  courtly  and  indeed  uni- 
versal gentleman,  whom  prophetic  studies  had  brought  to 
him,  whom  I  was  to  know  on  my  next  coming  to  London, 
more  joy  to  me !  We  had  been  discoursing  of  religion 
with  mildly  worded  but  entire  frankness  on  my  part  as 
usual,  and  something  I  said  had  struck  Irving  as  un- 
expectedly orthodox,  who  thereupon  ejaculated,  "Well,  I 

'  A  lonely  house  on  the  moor,  at  the  liead  of  Nithsdale,  ten  miles  from 
Dumfries. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  '         235 

am  right  glad  to  hear  that,  and  will  not  forget  it  when  it 
may  do  you  good  with  one  whom  I  know  of ;  "  with  Henry 
Drummond  namely,  which  had  led  him  into  that  topic, 
perhaps  not  quite  for  the  first  time.  There  had  been  big 
"  prophetic  conferences,"  etc.,  held  atDrummond's  house 
(Albury,  Surrey),  who  continued  ever  after  an  ardent 
Irvingite,  and  rose  by  degrees  in  the  "Tongues"  busi- 
ness to  be  hierophant,  and  chief  over  Irving  himself.  He 
was  far  the  richest  of  the  sect,  and  alone  belonged  to 
the  aristocratic  circles,  abundant  in  speculation  as  well  as 
in  money  ;  a  sharp,  elastic,  haughty  kind  of  man  ;  had 
considerable  ardour,  disorderly  force  of  intellect  and  char- 
acter, and  especially  an  insatiable  love  of  shining  and  fig- 
uring. In  a  difl*erent  element  I  had  afterwards  plentiful 
knowledge  of  Henry  Drummond,  and  if  I  got  no  good 
of  him  got  also  no  mischief,  which  might  have  been  ex- 
tremely possible. 

We  strolled  pleasantly,  in  loose  group,  Irving  the  cen- 
tre of  it,  over  the  fields.  I  remember  an  excellent  little 
portraiture  of  Methodism  from  him  on  a  green  knoll 
where  we  had  loosely  sat  down.  "Not  a  good  religion, 
sir,"  said  he,  confidentially  shaking  his  head  in  answer 
to  my  question  ;  "far  too  little  of  spiritual  conscience, 
far  too  much  of  temporal  appetite  ;  goes  hunting  and 
watching  after  its  own  emotions,  that  is,  mainly  its  own 
nervous  system  /  an  essentially  sensuous  religion,  depend- 
ing on  the  body,  not  on  the  soul!"  "Fit  only  for  a 
gross  and  vulgar-minded  people,"  I  perhaps  added  ;  "a 
religion  so  called,  and  the  essence  of  it  principally  coward- 
ice and  hunger,  terror  of  pain  and  appetite  for  pleasure 


236         -  EDWARD   IRVING. 

both  carried  to  the  infinite  ;  "  to  which  he  would  sorrow-  , 

fully  assent  in  a  considerable  degree.     My  brother  John,  J 

lately  come  home  from  Germany,  said  to  me  next  day,  " 

"That  was  a  pretty  little  ScJiilderimg   (portraiture)   he 
threw  off  for  us,  that  of  the  Methodists,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

At  Dunscorc,  in  the  evening,  there  was  sermon  and 
abundant  rustic  concourse,  not  in  the  kirk  but  round  it  in 
the  kirkyard  for  convenience  of  room.  I  attended  with 
most  of  our  people  {piie  of  us  not — busy  she  at  home 
"  field  marshalling,"  the  noble  little  soul!)  I  remember 
nothing  of  sermon  or  subject,  except  that  it  went  flow- 
ingly  along  like  true  discourse,  direct  from  the  inner  res- 
ervoirs, and  that  everybody  seemed  to  listen  with  respect- 
ful satisfaction.  We  rode  pleasantly  home  in  the  dusk, 
and  soon  afterwards  would  retire,  Irving  having  to  "  catch 
the  Glasgow  coach  "  early  next  day.  Next  day,  correct 
to  time,  he  and  I  w^ere  on  horseback  soon  after  breakfast, 
and  rode  leisurely  along  towards  Auldgirth  Bridge,  some 
ten  miles  from  us,  where  the  coach  was  to  pass.  Irving's 
talk,  or  what  of  it  I  remember,  turned  chiefly,  and  in  a 
cheerful  tone,  upon  touring  to  the  Continent,  a  beautiful 
six  weeks  of  rest  which  he  was  to  have  in  that  form  (and 
I  to  be  taken  with  him  as  dragoman,  were  it  nothing 
more  !),  which  I  did  not  at  the  time  believe  in,  and  which 
was  far  enough  from  ever  coming.  On  nearing  the  goal 
he  became  a  little  anxious  about  his  coach,  but  we  were 
there  in  perfect  time,  "  still  fifteen  minutes  to  spare,"  and 
stept  into  the  inn  to  wait  over  a  real,  or  (on  my  part), 
theoretic  glass  of  ale.  Irving  was  still  but  midway  in  his 
glass  when  the  coach,   sooner  than  expected,   was   an- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  2'}^'] 

nounced.  "Does  not  change  here,  changes  at  Thorn- 
hill  !  "  so  that  there  was  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  Irving 
sprang  hastily  to  the  coach  roof  (no  other  seat  left),  and 
was  at  once  bowled  away,  waving  me  his  kind  farewell, 
and  vanishing  among  the  woods.  This  was  probably  the 
last  time  I  ever  had  Irving  as  my  guest ;  nay,  as  guest 
for  nights  or  even  a  night  it  was  probably  the  first  time. 
In  Scotland  I  never  saw  him  again.  Our  next  meeting 
was  in  London,  autumn  of  the  year  1831. 

By  that  time  there  had  been  changes  both  with  him 
and  me.  With  him  a  sad-enough  change,  namely,  depo- 
sition from  the  Scottish  Established  Kirk,  which  he  felt 
to  be  a  sore  blow,  though  to  me  it  seemed  but  the  whifif 
of  a  tchivi  imbelle  for  such  a  man.  What  the  particulars 
of  his  heresy  were  I  never  knew,  or  have  totally  forgot- 
ten. Some  doctrine  he  held  about  the  human  nature  of 
the  Divine  Man  ;  that  Christ's  human  nature  was  liable 
to  sin  like  our  own,  and  continually  tempted  thereto, 
which  by  His  divine  nobleness  He  kept  continually  per- 
fect and  pure  from  sin.  This  doctrine,  which  as  an  im- 
partial bystander,  I,  from  Irving's  point  of  view  and 
from  my  own,  entirely  assented  to,  Irving  had  by  voice 
and  pen  been  publishing,  and  I  remember  hearing  vague- 
ly of  its  being  much  canvassed  up  and  down,  always  with 
impatience  and  a  boundless  contempt,  when  I  did  hear 
of  it.  "  The  gig  of  respectability  again  !  "  I  would  say  or 
think  to  myself.  "They  consider  it  more  honourable  to 
their  Supreme  of  the  world  to  have  had  his  work  done 
for  him  than  to  have  done  it  himself.  Flunkeys  irre- 
deemable, carrying    their  plush   into   highest   heaven  ! " 


23S  EDWARD   IRVING. 

This  I  do  remember,  but  whether  this  was  the  damning 
heresy,  this  or  some  other,  I  do  not  now  know.  Indeed, 
my  own  grief  on1:he  matter,  and  it  had  become  a  chronic 
dull  and  perennial  grief,  was  that  such  a  soul  had  any- 
thintr  to  do  with  "  heresies  "  and  mean  puddles  of  that 
helpless  sort,  and  was  not  rather  working  in  his  proper 
sphere,  infinite  spaces  above  all  that !  Deposed  he  cer- 
tainly was,  the  fact  is  still  recorded  in  my  memory,  and 
by  a  kind  of  accident  I  have  the  approximate  date  of  it 
too,  Allan  Cunningham  having  had  a  public  dinner  given 
him  in  Dumfries,  at  which  I  with  great  effort  attended, 
and  Allan's  first  talk  to  me  on  meeting  having  been  about 
Irving's  late  troubles,  and  about  my  own  soon  coming  to 
London  with  a  MS.  book  in  my  pocket,  with  "  Sartor 
Resartus  "  namely!  The  whole  of  Avhich  circumstances 
have  naturally  imprinted  themselves  on  me,  while  so 
much  else  has  faded  out. 

The  first  genesis  of  "Sartor"  I  remember  well 
enough,  and  the  very  spot  (at  Templand)  where  the  notion 
of  astonishment  at  clothes  first  struck  me.  The  book  had 
taken  me  in  all  some  nine  months,  which  arc  not  present 
now,  except  confusedly  and  in  mass,  but  that  of  being 
wearied  with  the  fluctuations  of  review  work,  and  of 
having  decided  on  London  again,  with  "Sartor"  as  a 
book  to  be  offered  there,  is  still  vivid  to  me  ;  vivid  above 
all  that  dinner  to  Allan,  whither  I  had  gone  not  against 
my  deliberate  will,  yet  with  a  very  great  repugnance, 
knowing  and  hating  the  multiplex  bother  of  it,  and  that  I 
should  have  some  kind  of  speech  to  make.  "Speech" 
done,  however  {taliter  qualiter,  some  short  rough  words 


EDWARD   IRVING.  239 

upon  Burns,  which  did  well  enough),  the  thing  became 
not  unpleasant,  and  I  still  well  remember  it  all.  Especi- 
ally how  at  length,  probably  near  midnight,  I  rose  to 
go,  decisively  resisting  all  invitations  to  "sleep  at  Dum- 
fries ;  "  must  and  would  drive  home  (knowing  well  who 
was  waiting  for  me  there  !)  and  drove  accordingly,  with 
only  one  circumstance  now  worth  mention. 

Dumfries  streets,  all  silent,  empty,  were  lying  clear  as 
day  in  the  purest  moonlight,  a  very  beautiful  and  shiny 
midnight,  when  I  stept  down  with  some  one  or  two  for 
escort  of  honour,  got  into  my  poor  old  gig — brother 
Alick's  gift  or  procurement  to  me — and  with  brief  fare- 
well rattled  briskly  away.  I  had  sixteen  good  miles 
ahead,  fourteen  of  them  parish  road,  narrower  than  high- 
way, but  otherwise  not  to  be  complained  of,  and  the 
night  and  the  sleeping  world  seemed  all  my  own  for  the 
little  enterprise.  A  small  black  mare,  nimble,  loyal, 
wise,*  this  was  all  my  team.  Soon  after  leaving  the  high- 
way, or  perhaps  it  was  almost  before,  for  I  was  well 
wrapt  up,  warm  enough,  contented  to  be  out  of  my 
affair,  wearied  too  with  so  much  noise  and  sipping  of 
wine,  I  too,  like  the  world,  had  fallen  sound  asleep,  must 
have  sat  in  deep  perfect  sleep  (probably  with  the  reins 
hung  over  the  whip  and  its  case),  for  about  ten  miles  ! 
There  were  ascents,  descents,  steep  enough,  dangerous 
fenceless  parts,  narrow  bridges  with  little  parapet  (espe- 
cially one  called   "rowting,"  i.e.    bellowing  or  roaring, 

'  Whom  I  well  remember.  "As  useful  a  beast,"  said  my  dear. mother 
once,  in  fine  expressive  Scotch,  as  we  drove  together,  ' '  as  ever  one  little 
skin  covered." 


240  EDWARD    IRVING. 

*'  Bn'n-,"  spanning  a  grand  loud  cataract  in  quite  an  intri- 
cate way,  for  there  was  abrupt  turn  just  at  the  end  of  it 
with  rapid  descent,  and  wrong  road  to  be  avoided)  ; 
"  Rowting  Brig,"  "  Milltown  Brig"  (also  with  intricacy 
of  wrong  roads),  not  very  long  after  which  latter,  in  the 
bottom  of  Glenesland,  roads  a  little  rumbly  there  owing 
to  recent  inundation,  I  awoke,  safe  as  if  Jehu  had  been 
driving  me,  and  within  four  miles  of  home  ;  considerably 
astonished,  but  nothing  like  so  grateful  as  I  now  am,  on 
looking  back  on  the  affair,  and  my  little  mare's  perform- 
ance in  it.  Ah  me  !  in  this  creation  rough  and  honest, 
though  not  made  for  our  sake  only,  how  many  things, 
lifeless  and  living,  living  persons  some  of  them,  and  tJieir 
life  beautiful  as  azure  and  heaven,  beneficently  help  us 
forward  while  we  journey  together,  and  have  not  yet 
bidden  sorrowful  farewell  !  My  little  darling  sate  waiting 
for  me  in  the  depths  of  the  desert,  and,  better  or  worse, 
the  Dumfries  dinner  was  over.  This  must  have  been  in 
July  1831. 

Thirteen  months  before  there  had  fallen  on  me,  and 
on  us  all,  a  very  great,  most  tender,  painful,  and  solemn 
grief,  the  death  of  my  eldest  sister  Margaret,  who  after 
some  struggles  had  quitted  us  in  the  flower  of  her  youth, 
age  about  twenty-five.  She  was  the  charm  of  her  old 
father's  life,  deeply  respected  as  well  as  loved  by  her 
mother  and  all  of  us,  by  none  more  than  me  ;  and  was,  in 
fact,  in  the  simple,  modest,'  comely,  and  rustic  form  as 
intelligent,  quietly  valiant,  quietly  wise  and  heroic  a 
young  woman  as  I  have  almost  ever  seen.  Very  dear 
and    estimable  to  my  Jeannie,  too,  who    had   zealously 


EDWARD   IRVING.  241 

striven  to  help  her,  and  now  mourned  for  her  along  with 
me.  "The  shortest  night  of  1830,"  that  was  her  last  in 
this  world.  The  year  before  for  many  months  she  had 
suffered  nameless  miseries  with  a  stoicism  all  her  own. 
Doctors,  unable  to  help,  saw  her  with  astonishment  rally 
and  apparently  recover,  "  by  her  own  force  of  character," 
said  one  of  them.  Never  shall  I  forget  that  bright  sum- 
mer evening  (late  summer  1829),  when  contemplatively 
lounging  with  my  pipe  outside  the  window,  I  heard  un- 
expectedly the  sound  of  horses'  feet,  and  up  our  little 
"  avenue,"  pacing  under  the  trees  overhung  by  the  yellow 
sunlight,  appeared  my  brother  John  and  she  unexpectedly 
from  Scotsbrig,  bright  to  look  upon,  cheery  of  face,  and 
the  welcomest  interruption  to  our  solitude.  "  Dear  Mag, 
dear  Mag,  once  more !  "  Nay,  John  had  brought  me 
from  Dumfries  post-office  a  long  letter  from  Goethe,  one 
of  the  finest  I  ever  had  from  him  ;  son's  death  perhaps 
mentioned  in  it ;  all  so  white,  so  pure,  externally  and  in- 
ternally, so  high  and  heroic.  This,  too,  seemed  bright 
to  me  as  the  summer  sunset  in  which  I  stood  reading  it. 
Seldom  was  a  cheerfuller  evening  at  Craigenputtoch. 
Margaret  stayed  perhaps  a  fortnight,  quietly  cheerful  all 
the  time,  but  was  judged  (by  a  very  quick  eye  in  such 
things),  to  be  still  far  from  well.  She  sickened  again  in 
March  or  April  next,  on  some  cold  or  accident,  grew 
worse  than  ever,  herself  i}ow  falling  nearly  hopeless. 
"  Cannot  stand  a  second  bout  like  last  year,"  she  once 
whispered  to  one  of  her  sisters.  We  had  brought  her  to 
Dum.fries  in  the  hope  of  better  medical  treatment,  which 

was  utterly  vain.     Mother  and  sister  Mary  waited  on  her 
16 


242  EDWARD    IRVING. 

^vith  trembling  anxiety  ;  I  often  there.  Few  days  before 
the  end  my  Jeannie  (in  the  dusk  of  such  a  day  of  gloomy 
hurlyburly  to  us  all  ! )  carried  her  on  her  knees  in  a 
sedan  to  some  suburban  new  garden  lodging  we  had  got 
(but  did  not  then  tell  me  what  the  dying  one  had  said  to 
her).  In  fine,  towards  midnight,  June  21-22,  I  alone  still 
up,  an  express  from  Dumfries  rapped  on  my  window. 
"  Grown  worse  ;  you  and  your  brother  wanted  yonder  !  " 
Alick  and  I  were  soon  on  horseback,  rode  diligently 
through  the  slumbering  woods— ever  memorable  to  me 
that  night,  and  its  phenomena  of  moon  and  sky  ! — found 
all  finished  hours  ago,  only  a  weeping  mother  and  sister 
left,  with  whom  neither  of  us  could  help  weeping.  Poor 
Alick's  face,  when  I  met  him  at  the  door  with  such  news 
(he  had  stayed  behind  mc  getting  rid  of  the  horses),  the 
mute  struggle,  mute  and  vain,  as  of  the  rugged  rock  not 
to  dissolve  itself,  is  still  visible  to  me.  Why  do  I  evoke 
these  bitter  sorrows  and  miseries  which  have  mercifully 
long  lain  as  if  asleep  ?  I  will  not  farther.  That  day, 
June  22,  1830,  full  of  sacred  sorrow  and  of  paltry  bother- 
ation of  business — for  we  had,  after  som.e  hours  and  a 
little  consultation,  sent  Mary  and  my  mother  home— is  to 
be  counted  among  the  painfullest  of  my  life  ;  and  in  the 
evening,  having  at  last  reached  the  silence  of  the  woods, 
I  remember  fairly  lifting  up  my  voice  and  weeping  aloud 
a  long  time. 

All  this  has  little  to  do  with  Irving,  little  even  with 
the  journey  I  was  now  making  towards  him,  except  that 
in  the  tumultuous  agitations  of  the  latter  it  came  all  in 
poignant  clearness  and  completeness  into  my  mind  again, 


EDWARD    IRVING.  243 

and  continued  with  me  in  the  background  or  the  fore- 
ground during  most  of  the  time  I  was  in  London. 

From  Whitehaven  onwards  to  Liverpool,  amid  the 
noise  and  jostle  of  a  crowd  of  high-dressed  vulgar-looking 
people  who  joined  us  there,  and  with  their  "  hot  brandies," 
dice-boxes,  etc.,  down  below,  and  the  blaring  of  brass 
bands,  and  idle  babblers  and  worshippers  of  the  nocturnal 
picturesque,  made  deck  and  cabin  almost  equally  a  de- 
lirium,— this,  all  this  of  fourteen  months  ago,  in  my  poor 
head  and  heart,  was  the  one  thing  awake,  and  the  satur- 
nalia round  it  a  kind  of  mad  nightmare  dream.  At  Lon- 
don too,  perhaps  a  week  or  so  after  my  arrival,  somebody 
had  given  me  a  ticket  to  see  Macready,  and  stepping  out 
of  the  evening  sun  I  found  myself  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
which  was  all  darkened,  carefully  lamp-lit,  play  just  be- 
ginning or  going  to  begin.  Out  of  my  gratis  box — front 
box  on  the  lower  tier — I  sat  gazing  into  that  painted 
scene  and  its  mimings,  but  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing; — 
her  green  grave  and  Ecclefechan  silent  little  kirkyard  far 
away,  and  how  the  evening  sun  at  this  same  moment 
would  be  shining  there,  generally  that  was  the  main  thing 
I  saw  or  thought  of,  and  tragical  enough  that  was,  with- 
out any  Macready  !  Of  Macready  that  time  I  remember 
nothing,  and  suppose  I  must  have  come  soon  away. 

Irving  was  now  living  in  Judd  Street,  New  Road,  a 
bigger,  much  better  old  house  than  the  former  new  one, 
and  much  handier  for  the  new  "  Caledonian  Chapel," 
which  stood  spacious  and  grand  in  Regent  Square,  and 
was  quite  dissevered  from  Hatton  Garden  and  its  concerns. 
I  stept  over  to  him  on  the  evening  of  my  arrival ;  found 


244  EDWARD    IRVING. 

liim  sitting  quiet  and  alone,  brotherly  as  ever  in  his  recep- 
tion of  me.      Our  talk  was  good  and  edifying. 

(Mr.  Carlyle's  MS.  is  here  interrupted.  Early  in 
December  1866  he  went  to  Mentone,  where  he  remained 
for  several  months.  December  2"]  he  resumes  in  the  new 
environment.)' 

He  was  by  this  time  deep  in  prophecy  and  other  aber- 
rations, surrounded  b}^  weak  people,  mostly  echoes  of 
himself  and  his  inaudible  notions  ;  but  he  was  willing  to 
hear  me  too  on  secularities,  candid  like  a  second  self  in 
judging  of  what  one  said  in  the  way  of  opinion,  and  wise 
and  even  shrewd  in  regard  to  anything  of  business  if  you 
consulted  him  on  that  side.  He  objected  clearly  to  my 
Reform  Bill  notions,  found  Democracy  a  thing  forbidden, 
leading  down  to  outer  darkness  ;  I,  a  thing  inevitable,  and 
obliged  to  lead  whithersoever  it  could.  We  had  several 
colloquies  on  that  subject,  on  which,  though  my  own  poor 
convictions  are  widened,  not  altered,  I  should  now  have 
more  sympathy  with  his  than  was  then  the  case.  We  also 
talked  on  religion  and  Christianity  "evidences,"  our  no- 

•  Ceased  in  London  perhaps  three  weeks  ago,  mere  hubbub  and  uncer- 
tainty intervening  ;  begins  again  at  Mentone  on  the  Riviera  Occidejitale, 
whither  I  iiave  been  pushed  and  pulled  in  the  most  unheard  of  way,  Professor 
Tyndall,  Lady  Ashburton,  friends,  foes,  all  conspiring,  a  journey  like  "chaos 
come  again,"  and  an  arrival  and  a  continuance  hitherto  still  liker  ditto. 
Wakeful  nights  each,  especially  the  one  just  gone  ;  in  which  strange  circum- 
stances—bright sun  shining,  blue  sea  faintly  murmering,  orange  groves  glow- 
ing out  of  window,  Mentone  hidden,  and  Ventimiglia  Cape  in  view,  all  earth 
a  kind  cf  Paradise,  inhabitants  a  kind  of  quasi-Satan— I  endeavour  to  pro- 
ceed the  best  I  can. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  245 

tions  of  course  more  divergent  than  ever.     "  It  is  sacred, 
my  friend,  we  can  call  it  sacred  ;  such  a  Civitas  Dei  as 
was  never  built  before,  wholly  the  grandest  series  of  work 
ever  hitherto  done  by  the  human  soul ;  the.  highest  God, 
doubt  it  not,  assenting  and  inspiring  all  along."     This  I 
remember  once  saying  plainly,  which  was  not  an  encour- 
agement to  prosecute  the  topic.     We  were  in  fact  hope- 
lessly divided,  to  what  tragical  extent  both  of  us  might 
well  feel !    But  something  still  remained,  and  this  we  (he, 
at  least,  for  I  think  in  friendship  he  was  the  nobler  of  the 
two)  were  only  the  more  anxious  to  retain  and  make  good. 
I  recollect  breakfasting  with  him,  a  strange  set  of  ignorant 
conceited  fanatics  fornling  the  body  of  the  party,   and 
greatly  spoiling  it  for  me.      Irving's  own   kindness  was 
evidently  in  essence  unabated  ;   how  sorrowful,   at  once 
provoking  and  pathetic,  that  I  or  he  could  henceforth  get 
so  little  good  of  it  ! 

We  were  to  have  gone  and  seen  Coleridge  together, 
had  fixed  a  day  for  that  object ;  but  the  day  proved  a 
long  deluge,  no  stirring  out  possible,  and  we  did  not  ap- 
point another,  I  never  saw  Coleridge  more.  He  died 
the  year  after  our  final  removal  to  London,  a  man  much 
pitied  and  recognised  by  me  ;  never  excessively  esteemed 
in  any  respect,  and  latterly,  on  the  intellectual  or  spiritual 
side,  less  and  less.  The  father  of  Puseyism  and  of  much 
vain  phantasmal  moonshine  which  still  vexes  this  poor 
earth,  as  I  have  already  described  him.  Irving  and  I  did 
not,  on  the  whole,  see  much  of  one  another  during  this 
"Sartor  Resartus  "  visit,  our  circumstances,  our  courses 
and  employments  were  so  altogether  diverse..     Early  in 


246  EDWARD    IRVING. 

the  visit  he  walked  me  to  Belgrave  Square  to  dine  with 
Henry  Drummond  ;  beautiful  promenade  through  the 
crowd  and  stir  of  Piccadilly,  which  was  then  somewhat  of 
a  novelty  to  me.  Irving,  I  heard  afterwards,  was  judged, 
from  the  broad  hat,  brown  skin,  and  flowing  black  hair  to 
be  in  all  probability  the  one-string  fiddler  Paganini — a  tall, 
lean,  taciturn  abstruse-looking  figure — who  was  then,  after 
his  sort,  astonishing  the  idle  of  mankind.  Henry  Drum- 
mond— house  all  in  summer  deshabille,  carpets  up,  etc. — 
receiv^ed  us  with  abundance  of  respect,  and  of  aristocratic 
pococurantism  withal  (the  latter  perhaps  rather  in  a  con- 
scious condition) ;  gave  us  plenty  of  talk,  and  received 
well  what  was  given  ;  chiefly  on  tile  rotten  social  state  of 
England,  on  the  "  Swing"  outrages  (half  the  year  raising 
wheat  and  the  other  half  burning  it),  which  were  then 
alarming  everybody — all  rather  in  epigrammatic  exagger- 
ative style,  and  with  "wisdom"  sometimes  sacrificed  to 
"  wit."  Gave  us,  in  short,  a  pleasant  enough  dinner  and 
evening,  but  left  me,  as  Mazzini  used  to  describe  it, 
"cold."  A  man  of  elastic,  pungent  decisive  nature,  full 
of  fine  qualities  and  capabilities,  but  well  nigh  cracked  by 
an  enormous  conceit  of  himself,  which,  both  as  pride  and 
vanity  (in  strange  partnership  mutually  agreeable),  seemed 
to  pervade  every  fibre  of  him,  and  render  his  life  a  restless 
inconsistency.  That  was  the  feeling  he  left  in  me  ;  nor 
did  it  alter  afterwards  when  I  saw  a  great  deal  more  of 
him,  without  sensible  increase  or  diminution  of  the  little 
love  he  at  first  inspired  in  me.  Poor  Henry  !  he  shot 
fiery  arrows  about  too,  but  they  told  nowhere.  I  was 
never  tempted  to  become  more  intimate  with  him,  though 


EDWARD   IRVING.  24/ 

he  now  and  then  seemed  willing  enough  :  ex  niJiilo  niJiil 
fit.  He,  without  unkindness  of  intention,  did  my  poor 
Irving  a  great  deal  of  ill  ;  me  never  any,  such  my  better 
luck.  His  last  act  was,  about  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  to 
ask  us  both  '  out  to  Albury  on  a  mistaken  day,  when  he 
himself  was  not  there  !  Happily  my  darling  had  at  the 
eleventh  hour  decided  not  to  go,  so  that  the  ugly  confu- 
sion fell  all  on  me,  and  in  a  few  months  more  Henry  was 
himself  dead,  and  no  mistake  possible  again.  Albury, 
the  ancient  Earl  of  Arundel's,  the  recent  scene  of  prophet 
conferences  etc.,  I  had  seen  for  the  first  and  most  likely 
for  the  last  time.  My  double-goer,  T.  Carlyle,  "Advo- 
cate," who  had  for  years  been  "  Angel  "  there,  was  lately 
dead  ;  and  the  numerous  mistakes,  wilful  and  involuntary, 
which  he,  from  my  fifteenth  year  onwards,  had  occasioned 
me,  selling  his  pamphlets  as  mine,  getting  my  letters  as 
his,  and  vice  versa  /  nay,  once  or  more  with  some  am- 
bassador at  Berlin  dining  in  my  stead  ;  foolish  vain  fellow, 
who  called  me  Antichrist  withal  in  his  serious  moments ! 
were  likewise  at  an  end.     All  does  end. 

My  business  lay  with  the  bookseller  or  publishing ' 
world  ;  my  chief  intercourse  was  with  the  lighter  literary 
figures  :  in  part,  too,  with  the  political,  many  of  whom  I 
transiently  saw  at  Jeffrey's  (who  was  then  Lord  Advo- 
cate), and  all  of  whom  I  might  hear  of  through  him.  Not 
in  either  kind  was  my  appetite  very  keen,  nor  did  it  in- 
crease by  what  it  fed  on.  Rather  a  "  feast  of  shells,"  as 
perhaps  I  then  defined  it  ;  people  of  biggish  names,  but 
of  substance  mainly  spilt   and  wanting.      All  men  were 

'  Carlyle  and  his  wife. 


24S  EDWARD   IRVING. 

full  of  the  Rt'fonn  Bill ;  nothing  else  talked  of,  written 
of,  the  air  loaded  with  it  alone,  which  occasioned  great 
obstruction  in  the  publishing  of  my  "  Sartor,"  I  was  told. 
On  that  latter  point  I  could  say  much,  but  will  forbear. 
Few  men  ever  more  surprised  me  than  did  the  great  Al- 
bemarle Street  Murray,  who  had  published  for  Byron  and 
all  the  great  ones  for  many  years,  and  to  whom  Jeffrey 
sent  me  recommended.  Stupider  man  than  the  great 
Murray,  in  look,  in  speech,  in  conduct,  in  regard  to  this 
poor  "Sartor"  question,  I  imagined  I  had  seldom  or 
never  seen  !  Afterwards  it  became  apparent  to  me  that 
partly  he  was  sinking  into  the  heaviness  of  old  age,  and 
partly,  still  more  important,  that  in  regard  to  this  partic- 
ular "Sartor"  question  his  position  was  an  impossible 
one  ;  position  of  a  poor  old  man  endeavouring  to  answer 
yes  and  no  !  I  had  striven  and  pushed  for  some  weeks 
with  him  and  others  on  those  impossible  principles,  till  at 
length  discovering  how  the  matter  stood,  I  with  brevity 
demanded  back  my  poor  MS.  from  Murray,  received  it 
with  some  apologetic  palaver  (enclosing  an  opinion  from 
his  taster,  which  was  subsequently  printed  in  our  edition), 
and  much  hope,  etc.  etc.  ;  locked  it  away  into  fixity 
of  silence  for  the  present  (my  Murray  into  ditto  for 
ever),  and  decided  to  send  for  the  dear  one  I  had  left 
behind  me,  and  let  her  too  see  London,  which  I  knew 
she  would  like,  before  we  went  farther.  Ah  me  !  this 
sunny  Riviera  which  we  sometimes  vaguely  thought  of, 
she  does  not  see  along  with  me,  and  my  thoughts  of 
her  here  are  too  sad  for  words.  I  will  write  no  more 
to-day.      Oh,  my  darling,  my  lost  darling,  may  the  great 


EDWARD    IRVING.  249 

God    be  good   to  thee!    Silence,  though!    and  "hope" 
if  I  can  ! 

My  Jeannie  came  about  the  end  of  September. 
Brother  John,  by  industry  of  hers  and  mine  (hers  chiefly), 
acting  on  an  opportunity  of' Lord  Advocate  Jeffrey's,  had 
got  an  appointment  for  Italy  (travelling  physician,  by 
which  he  has  since  made  abundance  of  money,  and  of 
work  may  be  said  to  have  translated  Dante's'"  Inferno," 
were  there  nothing  more  !)  We  shifted  from  our  uncom- 
fortable lodging '  into  a  clean,  quiet  and  modestly  com- 
fortable one  in  Ampton  Street  (same  St.  Pancras  region), 
and  there,  ourselves  two — brother  John  being  off  to  Italy 
— set  up  for  the  winter  under  tolerable  omens.  My  dar- 
ling was,  as  ever,  the  guardian  spirit  of  the  establish- 
ment, and  made  all  things  bright  and  smooth.  The 
daughter  of  the  house,  a  fine  young  Cockney  specimen, 
fell  quite  in  love  with  her,  served  like  a  fairy.  Was  next 
year,  long  after  we  were  gone,  for  coming  to  us  at  Craig- 
enputtoch  to  be  "  maid  of  all  work" — an  impossible  sug- 
gestion ;  and  did,  in  effect,  keep  up  an  adoring  kind  of 
intercourse  till  the  fatal  day  of  April  last,  never  changing 
at  all  in  her  poor  tribute  of  love.  A  fine  outpouring  of 
her  grief  and  admiring  gratitude,  written  after  that  event," 
was  not  thrown  into  the  fire  half- read,  or  unread,  but  is 
still  lying  in  a  drawer  at  Chelsea,  or  perhaps  adjoined  to 

'  At  Irving's  youngest  brother  George's  ;  an  incipient  surgeon,  amiable 
and  clear  superficially,  who  soon  after  died. 

*  Letter  to  me,  signed  "  Eliza  Snowden  "  ;  Miles  was  her  maiden  name. 
"Snowden,"  once  a  clerk  with  her  uncle,  is  now  himself,  for  long  years  back, 
a  prosperous  upholsterer ;  and  the  sylph  like  Eliza,  grown  fat  enough  of 
shape,  is  the  mother  of  six  or  seven  prosperous  children  to  him. 


2  50  EDWARD   IRVING. 

some  of  the  things  I  was  writing  there,  as  a  genuine 
human  utterance,  not  without  some  sad  value  to  me.  My 
poor  little  woman  had  often  indifferent  health,  which 
seemed  rather  to  worsen  than  improve  while  we  con- 
tinued ;  but  her  spirit  was  indefatigable,  ever  cheery,  full 
of  grace,  ingenuity,  dexterity  ;  and  she  much  enjoyed 
London,  and  the  considerable  miscellany  of  people  that 
came  about  us — Charles  Buller,  John  Mill,  several  pro- 
fessed "  admirers"  of  mine  (among  whom  was,  and  for 
aught  I  know  still  is,  the  mocking  Hayward  !)  ;  Jeffrey 
almost  daily,  as  an  admirer  of  hers  ;  not  to  mention  Mrs. 
Montague  and  Co.,  certain  Holcrofts  (Badams  married  to 
one  of  them,  a  certain  Captain  Kenny  married  to  the 
mother  of  them,  at  whose  house  I  once  saw  Godwin,  if 
that  was  anything),  Allan  Cunningham  from  time  to  time, 
and  fluctuating  foreigners,  etc.,  etc.  We  had  company 
rather  in  superabundance  than  otherwise,  and  a  pair  of 
the  clearest  eyes  in  the  whole  world  were  there  to  take 
note  of  them  all,  a  judgment  to  compare  and  contrast 
them  (as  I  afterwards  found  she  had  been  doing,  the  dear 
soul !)  with  what  was  already  all  her  own.  Ah  me  !  Ah 
me ! 

Soon  after  New  Year's  Day  a  great  sorrow  came,  un- 
expected news  of  my  father's  death.  He  had  been  in  bed, 
as  ill,  only  a  few  hours,  when  the  last  hour  proved  to  be 
there,  unexpectedly  to  all,  except  perhaps  to  himself;  for 
ever  since  my  sister  Margaret's  death  he  had  been  fast 
failing,  though  none  of  us  took  notice  enough,  such  had 
been  his  perfection  of  health  almost  all  through  the  sev- 
enty-three years  he  lived.     I  sat  plunged  in  the  depths  of 


EDWARD    IRVING.  2$ I 

natural  grief,  the  pale  kingdoms  of  eternity  laid  bare  to 
me,  and  all  that  was  sad  and  grand  and  dark  as  death  fill- 
ing my  thoughts  exclusively  day  after  day.  How  beauti- 
ful She  was  to  me,  how  kind  and  tender  !  Till  after  the 
funeral  my  father's  noble  old  face — one  of  the  finest  and 
strongest  I  have  ever  seen — was  continually  before  my 
eyes.  In  these  and  the  following  days  and  nights  I  hastily 
wrote  down  some  memorials  of  him,'  which  I  have  never 
since  seen,  but  which  still  exist  somewhere  ;  though,  in- 
deed, they  were  not  worth  preserving,  still  less  are  after 
I  have  done  with  them.  "  Posterity  !  "  that  is  what  I 
never  thought  of  appealing  to.  What  possible  use  can 
there  be  in  appealing  there,  or  in  appealing  anywhere,  ex- 
cept by  absolute  silence  to  the  High  Court  of  Eternity, 
which  can  do  no  error,  poor  sickly  transciencies  that  we 
are,  coveting  we  know  not  what !  In  the  February  en- 
suing I  wrote  "Johnson  "  (the  "  Bozzy  "  part  was  pub- 
lished in  "  Fraser"  for  March).  A  week  or  two  before, 
we  had  made  acquaintance,  by  Hunt's  own  goodness,  with 
Leigh  Hunt,  and  were  much  struck  with  him.  Early  in 
April  we  got  back  to  Annandale  and  Craigenputtoch.  Sad- 
ly present  to  my  soul,  most  sadly,  yet  most  beautifully, 
all  that,  even  now  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  winter  sad  things  had  occurred  in 
Irving' s  history,  fiis  enthusiastic  studies  and  preachings 
were  passing  into  the  practically  "  miraculous,"  and  to  me 
the  most  doleful  of  all  phenomena.  The  "  Gift  of 
Tongues  "had  fairly  broken  out  among  the  crazed  and 
weakliest  of  his  wholly  rather  dim  and  weakly  flock.  I 
'  The  first  "  Reminiscence  "  in  this  volume. 


252  EDWARD    IRVING. 


was  never  at  all  in  his  church  during  this  visit,  being  at 
once  frrieved  and  angered  at  the  course  he  had  fallen  into  ; 
but  once  or  twice  poor  Eliza  Miles  came  running  home 
from  some  evening  sermon  there  was,  all  in  a  tremor  of 
tears  over  these  same  "  Tongues,"  and  a  riot  from  the  dis- 
senting majority  opposing  them.  "  All  a  tumult  yonder, 
oh  me  !  "  This  did  not  happen  above  twice  or  so  ;  Irving 
(never  himself  a  "  Tongue  "  performer)  having  taken  some 
order  with  the  thing,  and  I  think  discouraged  and  nearly 
suppressed  it  as  unfit  during  church  service.  It  was 
greatly  talked  of  by  some  persons,  with  an  enquiry,  "  Do 
you  believe  in  it  ?  "  "  Believe  it  ?  As  much  as  I  do  in 
the  high  priest  of  Otaheite !  ''  answered  Lockhart  once  to 
Fraser,  the  enquiring  bookseller,  in  my  hearing.  Sorrow 
and  disgust  were  naturally  my  own  feeling.  "  How  are 
the  mighty  fallen  !  my  own  high  Irving  come  to  this,  by 
paltry  popularities  and  Cockney  admirations  puddling  such 
a  head  !  "  We  ourselves  saw  less  and  less  of  Irving,  but 
one  night  in  one  of  our  walks  we  did  make  a  call,  and  ac- 
tually heard  what  they  called  the  Tongues.  It  was  in  a 
neighbouring  room,  larger  part  of  the  drawing  room  be- 
like. Mrs.  Irving  had  retired  thither  with  the  devotees. 
Irving  for  our  sake  had  stayed,  and  was  pacing  about  the 
floor,  dandling  his  youngest  child,  and  talking  to  us  of 
this  and  that,  probably  about  the  Tongues  withal,  when 
there  burst  forth  a  shrieky  hysterical  "  Lah  lall  lall  !  " 
(little  or  nothing  else  but  /'s  and  a-s,  continued  for  several 
minutes),  to  which  Irving,  with  singular  calmness,  said 
only,  "  There,  hear  you,  there  are  the  Tongues  !  "  And 
we  too,  except  by  our  looks,  which  probably  were  elo- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  253 

quent,  answered  him  nothing,  but  soon  came  away,  full 
of  distress,  provocation,  and  a  kind  of  shame.  "  Why- 
was  there  not  a  bucket  of  cold  water  to  fling  on  that  laJi- 
lalling  hysterical  madwoman  ? "  thought  we,  or  said  to 
one  another.  "  Oh,  heaven,  that  it  should  come  to  this  !  " 
I  do  not  remember  any  call  that  we  made  there  afterwards. 
Of  course  there  was  a  farewell  call ;  but  that  too  I  recol- 
lect only  obliquely  by  my  Jeannie's  distress  and  disgust  at 
Mrs.  Irving's  hypocritical  final  kiss  ;  a  "  kiss  "  of  the  un- 
truest,  which  really  ought  to  have  been  spared.  Seldom 
was  seen  a  more  tragical  scene  to  us  than  this  of  Irving's 
London  life  was  now  becoming  ! 

One  other  time  we  did  see  Irving,  at  our  lodging, 
where  he  had  called  to  take  leave  of  us  a  day  or  two  be- 
fore our  quitting  London.  I  know  not  whether  the  inter- 
view had  been  preconcerted  between  my  darling  and  me 
for  the  sake  of  our  common  friend,  but  it  was  abundantly 
serious  and  affecting  to  us  all,  and  none  of  the  three,  I 
believe,  ever  forgot  it  again.  Preconcerting  or  not,  I  had 
privately  determined  that  I  must  tell  Irving  plainly  what 
I  thought  of  his  present  course  and  posture.  And  I  now 
did  so,  breaking  in  by  the  first  opportunity,  and  leading 
the  dialogue  wholly  into  that  channel,  till  with  all  the 
delicacy,  but  also  with  all  the  fidelity  possible  to  me,  I 
put  him  fully  in  possession  of  what  my  real  opinion  was. 
SJie,  my  noble  Jeannie,  said  hardly  anything,  but  her 
looks,  and  here  and  there  a  word,  testified  how  deep  her 
interest  was,  how  complete  her  assent.  I  stated  plainly 
to  him  that  he  must  permit  me  a  few  words  for  relief  of 
my  conscience  before  leaving  him  for  we  know  not  what 


254 


EDWARD    IRVING. 


lenf^th  of  time,  on  a  course  which  I  could  not  but  regard 
as  full  of  danger  to  him.     That  the  13//;  of  the  Corinthiafts 
to  which   he  always  appealed,  was  surely  too   narrow  a 
basis  for  so  high  a  tower  as  he  was  building  upon  it,  a 
hi<^h  lean  tower,  or  c^ndiSx-mast ,  piece  added  to  piece,  till 
it  soared  far  above  all  human  science  and  experience,  and 
flatly  contradicted  all  that,  founded  solely  on  a  little  text 
oi  tenting- in  an  ancient  book!     No  sound  judgment  on 
such   warranty    could    venture    on    such    an    enterprise. 
Authentic    "writings"    of    the    Most    High,    were    they 
found  in  old  books  only  ?     They  were  in  the  stars  and  on 
the  rocks,  and  in  the  brain  and  heart  of  every  mortal ; 
not  dubious  these  to  any  person,  as  this   13//?  of  Corin- 
thians very  greatly  was.     That  it  did  not  beseem  him, 
Edward  Irving,  to  be  hanging  on  the  rearward  of  man- 
kind, struggling  still  to   chain  them  to  old   notions  not 
now  well  tenable,  but  to  be  foremost  in  the  van,  leading 
on   by  the  light  of  the  eternal  stars  across  this  hideous 
delirious  wilderness  where  we  all  were,  towards  promised 
lands  that  lay  ahead.     Bethink  you,  my  friend,  I  said,  is 
not  that  your  plainly  commanded  duty,  more  plain  than 
any   13th  of  Corinthians  can  be.     I  bid   you  pause  and 
consider  ;   that   verily   is   my  solfemn    advice   to   you !  I 
added  that,  as  he  knew  well,  it  was  in  the  name  of  old 
friendship  I  was  saying  all  this.     That  I  did  not  expect 
he  would  at  once,  or  soon,  renounce  his  fixed  views,  con- 
nections, and  methods  for  any  words  of  mine  ;  but  per- 
haps at  some  future  time  of  crisis  and  questioning  dubiety 
in  his  own  mind  he  might  remember  the  words  of  a  well- 
atifccted  soul,  and  they  might  then  be  a  help  to  him. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  255 

During  all  this,  which  perhaps  lasted  about  twenty- 
minutes,  Irving  sat  opposite  to  me,  within  a  few  feet ;  my 
wife  to  his  right  hand  and  to  my  left,  silent  and  sad-look- 
ing, in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  Irving,  with  head  down- 
cast, face  indicating  great  pain,  but  without  the  slightest 
word  or  sound  from  him  till  I  had  arltogether  ended.  He 
then  began  with  the  mildest* low  tone,  and  face  full  of 
kindness  and  composed  distress — "  dear  friend,"  and  en- 
deavoured to  make  his  apology  and  defence,  which  did 
not  last  long  or  do  anything  to  convince  me,  but  was  in  a 
style  of  modesty  and  friendly  magnanimity  which  no  mor- 
tal could  surpass,  and  which  remains  to  me  at  this  moment 
dear  and  memorable  and  worthy  of  all  honour.  Which 
done,  he  went  silently  his  way,  no  doubt  with  kindest 
farewell  to  us,  and  I  remember  nothing  more.  Possibly 
we  had  already  made  farewell  call  in  Judd  Street  the  day 
before,  and  found  Jiivi  not  there. 

This  was,  in  a  manner,  the  last  visit  I  ever  made  to 
Irving,  the  last  time  either  of  ils  ever  freely  saw  him,  or 
spoke  with  him  at  any  length.  We  had  to  go  our  way, 
he  his  ;  and  his  soon  proved  to  be  precipitous,  full  of 
chasms  and  plunges,  which  rapidly  led  him  to  the  close. 
Our  journey  homewards — I  have  spoken  of  it  elsewhere, 
and  of  the  dear  reminiscences  it  leaves,  ever  sad,  but  also 
ever  blessed  to  me  now.  We  were  far  away  from  Irving 
in  our  solitary  moors,  stayed  there  still  above  two  years 
(one  of  our  winters  in  Edinburgh),  and  heard  of  Irving 
and  his  catastrophes  only  from  a  distance.  He  had  come 
to  Annan  and  been  expelled  from  the  Scottish  Kirk. 
That  scene  I  remember  reading  in  some  newspaper  with 


^ 


256  EDWARD   IRVING. 

lively  conception  and  emotion.  A  poor  aggregate  of 
Reverend  Sticks  in  black  gown,  sitting  in  Presbytery,  to 
pass  formal  condemnation  on  a  man  and  a  cause  which 
might  have  been  tried  in  Patmos  under  presidency  of  St. 
John  without  the  right  truth  of  it  being  got  at !  I  knew 
the  "  Moderator"  (one  Roddick,  since  gone  mad),  for  one 
of  the  stupidest  and  barrefiest  of  living  mortals ;  also  the 
little  phantasm  of  a  creature — Sloane  his  name — who  went 
niddy-noddying  with  his  head,  and  was  infinitely  conceited 
and  phantasmal,  by  whom  Irving  was  rebuked  with  the 
"Remember  where  you  are,  sir!"  and  got  answer,"! 
have  not  forgotten  where  I  am  ;  it  is  the  church  where  I 
was  baptised,  where  I  was  consecrated  to  preach  Christ, 
where  the  bones  of  my  dear  ones  lie  buried."  Condem- 
nation under  any  circumstances  had  to  follow  ;  "  /^  droit 
de  me  damner  te  reste  toiijours  !  "  as  poor  Danton  said  in 
a  far  other  case. 

The  feeling  of  the  population  was,  too,  strong  and 
general  for  Irving.  Reverends  Sloane  and  Roddick  were 
not  without  their  apprehensions  of  some  tumult  perhaps, 
had  not  the  people  been  so  reverent  of  the  place  they 
were  in.  Irving  sent  us  no  word  of  himself,  made  no  ap- 
peal to  any,  friend  or  foe,  unless  his  preaching  to  the  peo- 
ple up  and  down  for  some  days,  partly  perhaps  in  the 
way  of  defence,  though  mostly  on  general  Gospel  subjects, 
could  be  taken  as  such.  He  was  followed  by  great 
crowds  who  eagerly  heard  him.  My  brother  Jamie,  who 
had  been  at  several  of  those  open-air  preachings  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  Annan  neighbourhood,  and  who  much 
admired   and  pitied  the  great  Irving,  gave  me  the  last 


EDWARD    IRVING.  257 

notice  I  ever  had  of  that  tragic  matter,  "  Irving's  vocal 
appcllatio  ad poptiluniy'  when  Presbytery  had  condemned 
him.  This  time  the  gathering  was  at  Ecclefechan,  proba- 
bly the  final  one  of  all,  and  the  last  time  he  ever  preached 
to  Annandale  men.  The  assemblage  was  large  and  ear- 
nest, gathered  in  the  Middlebie  road,  a  little  way  off  the 
main  street  and  highway.  The  preacher  stood  on  some 
table  or  chair,  which  was  fixed  against  the  trunk  of  a 
huge,  high,  strong  and  many-branched  elm  tree,  well 
known  to  me  and  to  everyone  that  passes  that  way.  The 
weather  was  of  proper  February  quality,  grimly  fierce, 
with  windy  snow  showers  flying.  Irving  had  a  woollen 
comforter  about  his  neck,  skirts  of  comforter,  hair,  and 
cloak  tossing  in  the  storms  ;  eloquent  voice  well  audible 
under  the  groaning  of  the  boughs  and  piping  of  the  wind. 
Jamie  was  on  business  in  the  village  and  had  paused 
awhile,  much  moved  by  what  he  saw  and  heard.  It  was 
our  last  of  Irving  in  his  native  Annandale.  Mrs.  Oli- 
phant,  I  think,  relates  that  on  getting  back  to  London  he 
was  put  under  a  kind  of  arrest  by  certain  Angels  or  au- 
thorities of  his  New  "  Irvingite  "  Church  (just  established 
in  Newman  Street,  Oxford  Street),  for  disobeying  regula- 
tions— perhaps  in  regard  to  those  volunteer  preachings  in 
Annandaie — and  sat  with  great  patience  in  some  peniten- 
tial place  among  them,  dumb  for  about  a  week,  till  he  had 
expiated  that  sin.  Irving  was  now  become  wholly  tragical 
to  us,  and  the  least  painful  we  could  expect  in  regard  to 
him  was  what  mainly  happened,  that  we  heard  no  news 
from  that  side  at  all.  His  health  we  vaguely  understood 
was  becoming  uncertain,  news  naturally  worse  than  none, 
17 


2  58  EDWARD    IRVING. 

had  we  much  believed  it ;  which,  knowing  his  old  hercu- 
lean strength,  I  suppose  we  did  not. 

In  1834  came  our  own  removal  to  London,  concerning 
which  are  heavy  fields  of  memory,  laborious,  beautiful, 
sad  and  sacred  (oh,  my  darling  lost  one  !)  were  this  the 
place  for  them,  which  it  is  not.  Our  winter  in  Edinburgh, 
our  haggles  and  distresses  (badness  of  servants  mainly), 
our  bits  of  diligences,  strenuous  and  sometimes  happy, 
brought  in  fine  the  clear  resolution  that  we  ought  to  go. 
I  had  been  in  correspondence  with  London — with  John 
Mill,  Leigh  Hunt,  Mrs.  Austin,  etc. — ever  since  our  pres- 
ence there.  "  Let  us  burn  our  ships,"  said  my  noble  one, 
and  "  get  on  march  !  "  I  went  as  precursor  early  in  May, 
ignorantly  thinking  this  was,  as  in  Scotland,  the  general 
and  sole  term  for  getting  houses  in  London,  and  that  after 
May  26  there  would  be  none  but  leavings  !  We  were  not 
very  practically  advised,  I  should  think,  though  there  were 
counsellors  many.  However,  I  roved  hastily  about  seek- 
ing houses  for  the  next  three  weeks,  while  my  darling  was 
still  busier  at  home,  getting  all  things  packed  and  put 
under  way. 

What  endless  toils  for  her,  undertaken  with  what  cour- 
age, skill,  and  cheery  heroism  !  By  the  time  of  her  arri- 
val I  had  been  far  and  wide  round  London^  seeking 
houses.  Had  found  out  that  the  western  suburb  was  in 
important  respects  the  fittest,  and  had  seen  nothing  I 
thought  so  eligible  there  as  a  certain  one  of  three  cheap 
houses  ;  which  one  she  on  survey  agreed  to  be  the  best, 
and  which  is  in  fact  No.  5  Great  Cheyne  Row,  where  the 
rest  of  our  life  was  to  be   passed   together.     Why  do  I 


EDWARD    IRVING.  259 

write  all  this  !  It  is  too  sad  to  me  to  think  of  it,  broken 
down  and  solitary  as  I  am,  and  the  lamp  of  my  life,  which 
"covered  everything  with  gold"  as  it  were,  gone  out, 
gone  out ! 

It  was  on  one  of  those  expeditions,  a  week  or  more 
after  my  arrival,  expedition  to  take  survey  of  the  pro- 
posed No.  5,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Austin,  whom  I  had 
taken  up  in  Bayswater  where  she  lived,  and  with  whom, 
attended  also  by  Mrs.  Jamieson,  not  known  to  me  before, 
but  found  by  accident  on  a  call  there,  we  were  proceed- 
ing towards  Chelsea  in  the  middle  of  a  bright  May  day, 
when  I  noticed  well  down  in  Kensington  Gardens  a  dark 
male  figure  sitting  between  two  white  female  ones  under 
a  tree  ;  male  figure,  which  abruptly  rose  and  stalked  to- 
wards me,  whom,  seeing  it  was  Irving,  I  disengaged  my- 
self and  stept  out  to  meet.  It  was  indeed  Irving,  but  how 
changed  in  the  two  years  and  two  months  since  I  had  last 
seen  him  !  In  look  he  was  almost  friendlier  than  ever  ; 
but  he  had  suddenly  become  an  old  man.  His  head, 
which  I  had  left  raven-black,  was  grown  grey,  on  the 
temples  almost  snow-white.  The  face  was  hollow,  wrink- 
ly, collapsed  ;  the  figure,  still  perfectly  erect,  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  its  elasticity  and  strength.  We  walked  some 
space  slowly  together,  my  heart  smitten  with  various 
emotions ;  my  speech,  however,  striving  to  be  cheery 
and  hopeful.  He  was  very  kind  and  loving.  It  seemed 
to  be  a  kind  of  tender  grief  and  regret  that  my  Jeannie 
and  I  were  taking  so  important  a  step,  and  he  not  called 
at  all  to  assist,  rendered  unable  to  assist.  Certainly  in 
all  England  there  was  no  heart,  and  in  all  Scotland  only 


,5o  EDWARD    IRVING. 

two  or  three,  that  wished  us  half  as  well.  He  admitted 
liis  weak  health,  but  treated  it  as  temporary  ;  it  seemed 
of  small  account  to  him.  Friends  and  doctors  had  ad- 
vised him  to  shift  to  Bayswater  for  better  air,  had  got  him 
a  lodging  there,  a  stout  horse  to  ride.  Summer  they  ex- 
pected would  soon  set  him  up  again.  His  tone  was  not 
despondent,  but  it  was  low,  pensive,  full  of  silent  sorrow. 
Once,  perhaps  twice,  I  got  a  small  bit  of  Annandale 
laughter  from  him,  strangely  genuine,  though  so  lamed 
and  overclouded.  This  was  to  me  the  most  affecting 
thing  of  all,  and  still  is  when  I  recall  it.  He  gave  me  his 
address  in  Bayswater,  his  house  as  near  as  might  be,  and 
I  eneaeed  to  try  and  find  him  there  ;  I,  him,  which 
seemed  the  Hkelier  method  in  our  widely  diverse  ele- 
ments, both  of  them  so  full  of  bustle,  interruption,  and 
uncertainty.  And  so  adieu,  my  friend,  adieu  !  Neither 
of  us  had  spoken  with  the  women  of  the  other,  and  each 
of  us  was  gone  his  several  road  again,  mine  not  specially 
remembered  farther. 

It  seems  to  me  I  never  found  Irving  in  his  Bayswa- 
ter lodging.  I  distinctly  recollect  seeing  him  one  dusty 
evening  about  eight  at  the  door  there,  mount  his  horse, 
a  stout  fine  bay  animal,  of  the  kind  called  cob,  and  set  out 
towards  Newman  Street,  whither  he  rode  perhaps  twice 
or  thrice  a  day  for  church  services  there  were  ;  but  this 
and  his  friendly  regret  at  being  obliged  to  go  is  all  I  can 
recall  of  interview  farther.  Neither  at  the  Bayswater 
lodging  nor  at  his  own  house  in  Newman  Street  when  he 
returned  thither,  could  I  for  many  weeks  to  come  ever 
find  him  "  at  home."     In  Chelsea,  we  poor  pair  of  immi- 


EDWARD   IRVING.  26 1 

grants  had,  of  course,  much  of  our  own  to  do,  and  right 
courageously  we  marched  together,  my  own  brave  dar- 
ling (what  a  store  of  humble,  but  high  and  sacred  memo- 
ries to  me  !)  victoriously  carrying  the  flag.  But  at  length 
it  struck  me  there  was  something  questionable  in  these 
perpetual  "  not-at  home's  "  of  Irving,  and  that  perhaps 
his  poor,  jealous,  anxious,  and  much-bewildered  wife, 
had  her  hand  in  the  phenomenon.  As  proved  to  be  the 
fact  accordingly.  I  applied  to  William  Hamilton  (excel- 
lent City  Scotsman,  married,  not  over  well  I  doubt,  to  a 
sister  of  Mrs.  Irving),  with  a  brief  statement  of  the  case, 
and  had  immediate  remedy  ;  an  appointment  to  dinner  at 
Newman  Street  on  a  given  day,  which  I  failed  not  to  ob- 
serve. None  but  Irving  and  his  wife,  besides  myself, 
were  there.  The  dinner  (from  a  good  joint  of  roast  beef, 
in  a  dim  but  quite  comfortable  kind  of  room),  was  among 
the  pleasantest  of  dinners  to  me,  Madam  herself  wearing 
nothing  but  smiles,  and  soon  leaving  us  together  to  a  fair 
hour  or  two  of  free  talk.  I  think  the  main  topic  must 
have  been  my  own  outlooks  and  affairs,  my  project  of 
writing  on  the  French  Revolution,  which  Irving  warmly 
approved  of  (either  then  or  some  other  time).  Of  his 
church  matters  we  never  spoke.  I  went  away  gratified, 
and  for  my  own  share  glad,  had  not  the  outlooks  on  his 
side  been  so  dubious  and  ominous.  He  was  evidently 
growing  weaker,  not  stronger,  wearing  himself  down,  as 
to  me  seemed  too  clear,  by  spiritual  agitations,  which 
would  kill  him  unless  checked  and  ended.  Could  he  but 
be  got  to  Switzerland,  to  Italy,  I  thought,  to  some  pleas- 
ant country  of  which  the  language  was   unknown  to  him, 


252  EDWARD    IRVING. 

where  he  would  be  forced  to  silence,  the  one  salutary 
medicine  for  him  in  body  and  in  soul  !  I  often  thought 
of  this,  but  he  had  now  no  brother,  no  father,  on  whom  I 
could  practically  urge  it,  as  I  would  with  my  whole 
strength  have  done,  feeling  that  his  life  now  lay  on  it.  I 
had  to  hear  of  his  growing  weaker  and  weaker,  while 
there  was  nothing  whatever  that  I  could  do. 

With  himself  I  do  not  recollect  that  there  was  any- 
thing more  of  interview  since  that  dinner  in  Newman 
Street,  or  that  I  saw  him  again  in  the  world,  except  once 
only,  to  be  soon  noticed.  Latish  in  the  autumn  some  of 
the  Kirkcaldy  Martins  had  come.  I  remember  speaking 
to  his  father-in-law  at  Hamilton's  in  Cheapside  one  even- 
ing and  very  earnestly  on  the  topic  that  interested  us 
both.  But  in  Martin,  too,  there  was  nothing  of  help, 
"Grows  weaker  and  weaker,"  said  he,  "and  no  doctor 
can  find  the  least  disease  in  him  ;  so  weak  now  he  cannot 
lift  his  little  baby  to  his  neck  !  "  In  my  desperate  anxiety 
at  this  time  I  remember  writing  a  letter  on  my  Switzer- 
land or  Italy  scheme  to  Henry  Drummond,  whom  I  yet 
knew  nothing  more  of,  but  considered  to  be  probably  a 
man  of  sense  and  practical  insight ;  letter  stating  briefly 
my  sad  and  clear  belief,  that  unless  carried  into  some 
element  of  perfect  silence,  poor  Irving  would  soon  die  ; 
letter  which  lay  some  days  on  the  mantelpiece  at  Chelsea, 
under  some  misgivings  about  sending  it,  and  was  then 
thrown  into  the  fire.  We  heard  before  long  that  it  was 
decided  he  should  journey  slowly  into  Wales,  paying 
visits— perhaps  into  Scotland,  which  seemed  the  next  best 
to  what  I  would  have  proposed,  and  was  of  some  hope  to 


EDWARD    IRVING.  263 

US.     And  late  one  afternoon,  soon  after,  we  had  a  short 
farewell  visit  from  him  ;  his  first  visit  to  Cheyne  Row  and 
his  last ;  the  last  we  two  ever  saw  of  him  in  this  world. 
It  was  towards  sunset,  had  there  been  any  sun,  that  damp 
dim  October  day.     He  came  ambling  gently  on  his  bay 
horse,  sate    some  fifteen   or   twenty  minutes,  and    went 
away  while  it  was  still  daylight.     It  was  in  the  ground- 
floor  room,  where  I  still  write  (thanks  to   her  last  service 
to  me,  shifting  me  thither  again,  the  darling  ever-helpful 
one  !)     Whether  she  was  sitting  with  me  on  his  entrance 
I  don't   recollect,  but  I    well   do   his   fine  chivalrous  de- 
meanour to  her,  and   how   he  complimented   her,  as   he 
well  might,  on  the  pretty  little  room  she  had  made  for  her 
husband  and  self,  and   running  his  eye  over  her  dainty 
bits  of  arrangements,  ornamentations,  all  so  frugal,  simple, 
full  of  grace,  propriety,  and  ingenuity  as  they  ever  were, 
said,  smiling,  "You  are   like  an  Eve,  and   make  a   little 
Paradise  wherever  you  are  !  "     His  manner  was  sincere, 
affectionate,  yet  with  a  great  suppressed  sadness  in  it,  and! 
as  if  with  a  feeling  that  he  must  not  linger.     It  was  per- 
haps on  this  occasion  that  he  expressed  to  me  his  satis- 
faction at  my  having  taken  to  "  writing  history  "  ("  French 
Revolution "   now  begun,  I  suppose)  ;  study  of  history, 
he  seemed    to    intimate,    was    the   study   of  things  real 
practical  and  actual,  and  would  bring  me  closer  upon  all 
reality  whatever.     With  a  fine  simplicity  of  lovingness  he 
bade  us  farewell.      I   followed  him  to  the  door,  held  his 
bridle    (doubtless)  while   he    mounted,  no    groom   being 
ever  with  him  on  such  occasions,  stood    on  the    steps  as 
he  quietly  walked    or  ambled    up    Cheyne    Row,  quietly 


264  EDWARD   IRVING. 

turned  the  corner  (at  Wright's  door,  or  the  Rector's 
back  garden  door),  into  Cook's  grounds,  and  had  van- 
ished from  my  eyes  for  evermore.  In  this  world  neither 
of  us  ever  saw  him  again.  He  was  off  northward  in  a 
day  or  two,  died  at  Glasgow  in  December  following, 
age  only  forty-three,  and  except  weakness  no  disease 
traceable. 

Mrs.    Oliphant's    narrative    is    nowhere    so    true   and 
touching  to  me  as  in  that  last  portion,  where  it  is  drawn 
almost  wholly  from  his  own  letters  to  his  wife.     All  there 
is  true  to  the  life,  and  recognisable  to   me    as   perfect 
portraiture ;  what  I  cannot  quite  say  of  any  other  por- 
tion of  the  book.     All  Mrs.  Oliphant's  delineation  shows 
excellent  diligence,  loyalty,  desire  to  be  faithful,  and  in- 
deed is  full  of  beautiful  sympathy  and  ingenuity ;   but 
nowhere  else  are  the  features  of  Irving  or  of  his  environ- 
ment and  life  recognisably  hit,  and  the  pretty  picture,  to 
one  who   knew  his   looks   throughout,  is   more   or  less 
\omz.xi\:\c  pictorial,  and   "not  like"   till  we  arrive  here, 
at   the   grand  close  of  all,  which  to  me   was  of  almost 
Apocalyptic  impressiveness   when   I    first   read   it   some 
years  ago.     What  a  falling  of  the  curtain  !  upon  what  a 
drama !     Rustic  Annandale   begins   it,   with  its  homely 
honesties,    rough   vernacularities,   safe,    innocently  kind, 
ruggedly   mother-like,  cheery,  wholesome,   like   its   airy 
hills  and  clear-rushing  streams  ;  prurjent  corrupted  Lon- 
don is  the  middle  part,  with  its  volcanic  stupidities  and 
bottomless  confusions  ;  and  in  the  end  is  terrible,  mys- 
terious, godlike  and  awful ;   what  Patmos  could  be  more 
so  ?     It  is  as  if  the  vials  of  Heaven's  wrath  were  pouring 


EDWARD   IRVING.  265 

down  upon  a  man,  yet  not  wrath  alone,  for  his  heart  was 
filled  with  trust  in  Heaven's  goodness  withal.  It  must  be 
said  Irving  nobly  expiates  whatever  errors  he  has  fallen 
into.  Like  an  antique  evangelist  he  walks  his  stony 
course,  the  fixed  thought  of  his  heart  at  all  times, 
"Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him;"  and 
these  final  deluges  of  sorrow  are  but  washing  the  faithful 
soul  of  him  clear. 

He  senffrom  Glasgow  a  curious  letter  to  his  "  Gift 
of  Tongues"  congregation  ;  full  of  questionings,  dubieties 
upon  the  Tongues,  and  such  points,  full  of  wanderings  in 
deep  waters,  with  one  light  fixed  on  high  :  "  Humble 
ourselves  before  God,  and  he  will  show  us ;  "  letter  indi- 
cating a  sincerity  as  of  very  death,  which  these  New 
Church  people  (Henry  Drummond  and  Co.)  first  printed 
for  useful  private  circulation,  and  then  afterwards  zeal- 
ously suppressed  and  destroyed,  till  almost  everybody 
but  myself  had  forgotten  the  existence  of  it.  Luckily, 
about  two  years  ago  I  still  raked  out  a  copy  of  it  from 
"  Rev.  Gavin  Carhle,"  '  by  whom  I  am  glad  to  know  it 
has  been  printed  and  made  prominent,  as  a  document 
honourable  and  due  to  such  a  memory.  Less  men- 
dacious soul  of  a  man  than  my  noble  Irving's  there  could 
not  well  be. 

It  was  but  a  little  while  before  this  that  he  had  said  to 
Drummond,  what  was  mentioned  above,  "  I  ought  to  have 
seen  more  of  T.  Carlyle,  and  heard  him  more  clearly  than 

'  Nephew  of  Irving.     Now  editing  Irving's  Select  Works,  or  some  such 
title. 


266  EDWARD   IRVING. 

I  have  done."  And  there  is  one  other  thing  which  dates 
several  years  before,  which  I  always  esteem  highly  hon- 
ourable to  Irving's  memory,  and  which  I  will  note  here  as 
my  last  item,  since  it  was  forgotten  at  its  right  date. 
Right  date  is  that  of  "  German  Romance,"  early  1826. 
The  report  is  from  my  brother  John,  to  whom  Irving  spoke 
on  the  subject,  which  with  me  he  had  always  rather 
avoided.  Irving  did  not  much  know  Goethe  ;  had  gener- 
ally a  dislike  to  him  as  to  a  kind  of  heathen- ungodly  per- 
son and  idle  singer,  who  had  considerably  seduced  me 
from  the  right  path,  as  one  sin.  He  read  "  Wilhelm 
Meister's  Travels  "  nevertheless,  and  he  said  to  John  one 
day,  "  Very  curious  1  in  this  German  poet  there  are  some 
pages  about  Christ  and  the  Christian  religion,  which  as  I 
study  and  re-study  them  have  more  sense  about  that 
matter  than  I  have  found  in  all  the  theologians  I  have  ever 
read  !  "  Was  not  this  a  noble  thing  for  such  a  man  to  feel 
and  say  ?  I  have  a  hundred  times  recommended  that 
passage  in  "  Wilhelm  Meister  "  to  enquiring  and  devout 
souls,  but  I  think  never  elsewhere  met  with  one  who  so 
thoroughly  recognised  it.  One  of  my  last  letters,  flung 
into  the  fire  just  before  leaving  London,  was  from  an  Ox- 
ford self-styled  "  religious  enquirer,"  who  asks  me  if  in 
those  pages  of"  Meister"  there  is  not  a  wonderfully  dis- 
tinct foreshadow  of  Comte  and  Positivism !  Phoebus 
Apollo,  ^od  of  the  sun,  foreshadowing  the  miserablest 
phantasmal  algebraic  ghost  I  have  yet  met  with  among  the 
ranks  of  the  living  1 

I  have  now  ended,  and  am  sorry  to  end,  what  I  had  to 


EDWARD   IRVING.  267 

say  of  Irving.  It  is  like  bidding  him  farewell  for  a  second 
and  the  last  time.  He  waits  in  the  eternities.  Another, 
his  brightest  scholar,  has  left  me  and  gone  thither.  God 
be  about  us  all.     Amen.     Amen. 

Finished  at  Mentone,  January  2,  1867,  looking  towards 
the  eastward  hills,  bathed  in  sunshine,  under  a  brisk  west 
wind;  two  P.M. 

T.  C. 


LORD  JEFFREY. 


LORD   JEFFREY 

OF   FRANCIS  JEFFREY,    HON.    LORD    JEFFREY,    THE   LAW- 
YER  AND   REVIEWER. 

Mentone  :  January  3,  1867. 

Few  sights  have  been  more  impressive  to  me  than  the 
sudden  one  I  had  of  the  "  Outer  House  "  in  Parliament 
Square,  Edinburgh,  on  the  evening  of  NovemberQ,  1809, 
some  hours  after  my  arrival  in  that  city  for  the  first  time. 
We  had  walked  some  twenty  miles  that  day,  the  third 
day  of  our  journey  from  Ecclefechan  ;  my  companion  one 
"Tom  Smail,"  who  had  already  been  to  college  last 
year,  and  was  thought  to  be  a  safe  guide  and  guardian  to 
me.  He  was  some  years  older  than  myself,  had  been  at 
school  along  with  me,  though  never  in  my  class.  A  very 
innocent,  conceited,  insignificant  but  strict-minded  ortho- 
dox creature,  for  whom,  knowing  him  to  be  of  no  scholar- 
ship or  strength  of  judgment,  I  had  privately  very  small 
respect,  though  civilly  following  him  about  in  things  he 
knew  better  than  I.  (^As  in  the  streets  of  Edinburgh,  for 
example,  on  my  first  evening  there  I  On  our  journey 
thither  he  had  been  wearisome,  far  from  entertaining, 
mostly  silent,  having  indeed  nothing  to  say.  He  stalked 
on    generally    some    steps    ahead,    languidly    whistling 


\    272  LORD   JEFFREY. 

\hrough  his  teeth  some  simiHtude  of  a  wretched  Irish 
tune,  which  I  knew  too  well  as  that  of  a  still  more 
wretched  doggrel  song  called  the  "  Belfast  Shoemaker," 
mo^t  melancholy  to  poor  me,  given  up  to  my  bits  of  re- 
flections in  the  silence  of  the  moors  and  hills. 

How  strangely  vivid,  how  remote  and  wonderful, 
tinf^cd  with  the  hues  of  far-off  love  and  sadness,  is  that 
journey  to  me  now,  after  fifty-seven  years  of  time  !  My 
mother  and  father  walking  with  me  in  the  dark  frosty 
November  morning  through  the  village  to  set  us  on  our 
way  ;  my  dear  and  loving  mother  and  her  tremulous  af- 
fection, my  etc.  etc.  But  we  must  get  to  Edinburgh  and 
Moffat,  over  Airock  Stane  (Burnswark  visible  there  for 
the  last  time,  and  my  poor  little  sister  Margaret  "  burst- 
ing into  tears  "  when  she  heard  of  this  in  my  first  letter 
home).  I  hid  my  sorrow  and  my  weariness,  but  had 
abundance  of  it,  chequering  the  mysterious  hopes  and 
forecastings  of  what  Edinburgh  and  the  student  element 
would  be.  Tom  and  I  had  entered  Edinburgh,  after 
twenty  miles  of  w^alking,  between  two  and  three  P.M.,  got 
a  clean-looking  most  cheap  lodging  (Simon  Square  the 
poor  locality),  had  got  ourselves  brushed,  some  morsel  of 
dinner  doubtless,  and  Palinurus  Tom  sallied  out  into  the 
streets  with  me  to  show  the  novice  mind  a  little  of  Edin- 
burgh before  sundown.  The  novice  mind  was  not  exces- 
sively astonished  all  at  once,  but  kept  its  eyes  well  open 
and  said  nothing.  What  streets  we  went  through  I  don't 
the  least  recollect,  but  have  some  faint  image  of  St.  Giles's 
High  Kirk,  and  of  the  Luckenbooths  there,  with  their 
strange  little  ins  and  outs,  and  eager  old  women  in  minia- 


LORD   JEFFREY.  2/3 

ture  shops  of  combs,  shoelaces,  and  trifles  ;  still  fainter 
image,  if  any  whatever,  of  the  sublime  horse  statue  in 
Parliament  Square  hard  by.  Directly  after  which  Smail, 
audaciously  (so  I  thought),  pushed  open  a  door  free  to  all 
the  world,  and  dragged  me  in  with  him  to  a  scene  which 
I  have  never  forgotten. 

An  immense  hall,  dimly  lighted  from  the  top  of  the 
walls,  and  perhaps  with  candles  burning  in  it  here  and 
there,  all  in  strange  chiaroscuro,  and  filled  with  what  I 
thought  (exaggeratively)  a  thousand  or  two  of  human 
creatures,  all  astir  in  a  boundless  buzz  of  talk,  and  sim- 
mering about  in  every  direction,  some  solitary,  some  in 
groups.  By  degrees  I  noticed  that  some  were  in  wig  and 
black  gown,  some  not,  but  in  common  clothes,  all  well 
dressed  ;  that  here  and  there,  on  the  sides  of  the  hall, 
were  little  thrones  with  enclosures,  and  steps  leading  up, 
red-velvet  figures  sitting  in  said  thrones,  and  the  black- 
gowned  eagerly  speaking  to  them  ;  advocates  pleading  to 
judges,  as  I  easily  understood.  How  they  could  be  heard 
in  such  a  grinding  din  was  somewhat  a  mystery.  Higher 
up  on  the  walls,  stuck  there  like  swallows  in  their  nests, 
sate  other  humbler  figures.  These  I  found  were  the 
sources  of  certain  wildly  plangent  lamentable  kinds  of 
sounds  or  echoes  which  from  time  to  time  pierced  the 
universal  noise  of  feet  and  voices,  and  rose  unintelligibly 
above  it  as  if  in  the  bitterness  of  incurable  woe.  Criers 
of  the  Court,  I  gradually  came  to  understand.  And  this 
was  Themis  in  her  "  Outer  House,"  such  a  scene  of 
chaotic  din  and  hurlyburly  as  I  had  never  figured  before. 

It  seems  to  me  there  were  four  times  or  ten  times  as  many 
i8 


274  LORD   JEFFREY. 

people  in  that  "  Outer  House  "  as  there  now  usually  are, 
and  doubtless  there  is  something  of  fact  in  this,  such  have 
been  the  curtailments  and  abatements  of  law  practice  in 
the  head  courts  since  then,  and  transference  of  it  to  the 
county  jurisdiction.  Last  time  I  was  in  that  Outer  House 
(some  six  or  seven  years  ago,  in  broad  daylight),  it 
seemed  like  a  place  fallen  asleep,  fallen  almost  dead. 

Notable  figures,  now  all  vanished  utterly,  were  doubt- 
less wandering  about  as  part  of  that  continual  hurlyburly 
when  I  first  set  foot  in  it,  fifty-seven  years  ago  :  great 
Law  Lords  this  and  that,  great  advocates  alors  ce'lebres, 
as  Thiers  has  it  ;  Cranstoun,  Cockburn,  Jeffrey,  Walter 
Scott,  John  Clerk.  To  me  at  that  time  they  were  not 
even  names,  but  I  have  since  occasionally  thought  of  that 
night  and  place  when  probably  they  were  living  substan- 
ces, some  of  them  in  a  kind  of  relation  to  me  afterwards. 
Time  with  his  tenses,  what  a  miraculous  entity  is  he 
always !  The  only  figure  I  distinctly  recollect  and  got 
printed  on  my  brain  that  night  was  John  Clerk,  there 
veritably  hitching  about,  whose  grim  strong  countenance, 
with  its  black  far-projecting  brows  and  look  of  great 
sagacity,  fixed  him  in  my  memory.  Possibly  enough 
poor  Smail  named  others  to  me,  Jeffrey  perhaps,  if  we 
saw  him,  though  he  was  not  yet  quite  at  the  top  of  his 
celebrity.  Top  was  some  three  or  four  years  afterwards, 
and  went  on  without  much  drooping  for  almost  twenty 
years  more.  But  the  truth  is,  except  Clerk  I  carried  no 
figure  away  with  me  ;  nor  do  I  in  the  least  recollect  how 
we  made  our  exit  into  the  streets  again,  or  what  we  did 
next.      Outer   House,  vivid  now  to  a  strange   degree,  is 


LORD   JEFFREY.  2/5 

bordered  by  darkness  on  both  hands.  I  recall  it  for 
Jeffrey's  sake,  though  we  see  it  is  but  potentially  his,  and 
I  mean  not  to  speak  much  of  his  law  procedures  in  what 
follows. 

Poor  Smail,  too,  I  may  dismiss  as  thoroughly  insig- 
nificant, conceitedly  harmless.  He  continued  in  some 
comradeship  with  me  (or  with  James  Johnston  and  me), 
for  perhaps  two  seasons  more,  but  gained  no  regard  from 
me,  nor  had  any  effect  on  me,  good  or  bad.  Became, 
with  success,  an  insignificant  flowery  Burgher  minister 
(somewhere  in  Galloway),  and  has  died  only  within  few 
years.  Poor  Jamie  Johnston,  also  my  senior  by  several 
years,  was  far  dearer,  a  man  of  real  merit,  with  whom 
about  my  17th — 21st  years  I  had  much  genial  compan- 
ionship. But  of  him  also  I  must  not  speak,  the  good, 
the  honest,  not  the  strong  enough,  much-suffering  soul. 
He  died  as  schoolmaster  of  Haddington  in  a  time  mem- 
orable to  me.     Ay  de  mi  I 

It  was  about  181 1  when  I  began  to  be  familiar  with 
the  figure  of  Jeffrey,  as  I  saw  him  in  the  courts.  It  was 
in  18 12-13  that  he  became  universally  famous,  especially 
in  Dumfriesshire,  by  his  saving  from  the  gallows  one 
"  Nell  Kennedy,"  a  country  lass  who  had  shocked  all 
Scotland,  and  especially  that  region  of  it,  by  a  wholesale 
murder,  done  on  her  next  neighbour  and  all  his  house- 
hold in  mass,  in  the  most  cold-blooded  and  atrocious 
manner  conceivable  to  the  oldest  artist  in  such  horrors. 
Nell  went  down  to  Ecclefechan  one  afternoon,  purchased 
a  quantity  of  arsenic,  walked  back  with  it  towards  Burns- 
wark   Leas,    her   father's    farm,    stopped    at    Burnswark 


2'j6  LORD   JEFFREY. 

Farm,  which  was  old  Tom  Stoddart's,  a  couple  of  fur- 
longs short  of  her  own  home,  and  there  sate  gossiping 
till  she  pretended  it  was  too  late,  and  that  she  would  now 
sleep  with  the  maid.  Slept  accordingly,  old  Tom  giving 
no  welcome,  only  stingy  permission  ;  rose  with  the 
family  next  morning,  volunteered  to  make  porridge  for 
breakfast,  made  it,  could  herself  take  none  of  it,  Avent 
home  instead,  "  having  a  headache,"  and  in  an  hour  or  so 
after  poor  old  Tom,  his  wife,  maid,  and  every  living 
creature  in  the  house  (except  a  dog  who  had  vomited, 
and  7iot  except  the  cat  who  couldn't),  was  dead  or  lay 
dying.  Horror  was  universal  in  those  solitary  quiet 
regions.  On  the  third  day  my  father  finding  no  lawyer 
take  the  least  notice,  sent  a  messenger  express  to  Dum- 
fries, whereupon  the  due  precognitions,  due  et  celeras, 
due  arrest  of  Helen  Kennedy,  with  strict  questioning  and 
strict  locking  up  as  the  essential  element.  I  was  in  Edin- 
burgh that  summer  of  1812,  but  heard  enough  of  the 
matter  there.  In  the  Border  regions,  where  it  was  the 
universal  topic,  perhaps  not  one  human  creature  doubted 
but  Nell  was  the  criminal,  and  would  get  her  doom. 
Assize  time  came,  Jeffrey  there  ;  and  Jeffrey  by  such  a 
play  of  advocacy  as  was  never  seen  before  bewildered  the 
poor  jury  into  temporary  deliquium  or  loss  of  wits  (so 
that  the  poor  foreman,  Scottice  chancellor,  on  whose 
casting  vote  it  turned,  said  at  last,  with  the  sweat  burst- 
ing from  his  brow,  Mercy,  then,  mercy!)  and  brought 
Nell  clear  off;  home  that  night,  riding  gently  out  of 
Dumfries  in  men's  clothes  to  escape  the  rage  of  the  mob. 
The  jury  chancellor,  they  say,  on  awakening  next  morn- 


LORD   JEFFREY.  277 

ing,  smote  his  now  dry  brow  with  a  gesture  of  despair 
and  exclaimed,  "Was  I  mad?"  I  have  heard  from 
persons  who  were  at  the  trial  that  Jeffrey's  art  in  examin- 
ing of  witnesses  was  extreme,  that  he  made  them  seem  to 
say  almost  what  he  would,  and  blocked  them  up  from 
saying  what  they  evidently  wished  to  say.  His  other 
great  resource  was  urging  the  "want  of  motive"  on 
Nell's  part ;  no  means  of  fancying  how  a  blousy  rustic 
lass  should  go  into  such  a  thing  ;  thing  must  have  hap- 
pened otherwise  !  And  indeed  the  stagnant  stupid  soul 
of  Nell,  awake  only  to  its  own  appetites,  and  torpid  as 
dead  bacon  to  all  else  in  this  universe,  had  needed  un- 
commonly little  motive.  A  blackguard  young  farmer  of 
the  neighbourhood,  it  was  understood,  had  answered  her 
in  a  trying  circumstance,  "  No,  oh  no,  I  cannot  marry 
you.  Tom  Stoddart  has  a  bill  against  me  of  50/.  /  I 
have  no  money.  How  can  I  marry  ?  "  "  Stoddart  50^- >" 
thought  Nell  to  herself  ;  and  without  difficulty  decided  on 
removing  that  small  obstacle  ! 

Jeffrey's  advocate  fame  from  this  achievement  was,  at 
last,  almost  greater  than  he  wished,  as  indeed  it  might 
well  be.  Nell  was  next  year  indicted  again  for  murdering 
a  child  she  had  borne  (supposed  to  be  the  blackguard 
young  farmer's).  She  escaped  this  time  too,  by  want  of 
evidence  and  by  good  advocacy  (not  Jeffrey's,  but  the 
very  best  that  could  be  hired  by  three  old  miser  uncles, 
bringing  out  for  her  their  long-hoarded  stock  with  a  gen- 
erosity nigh  miraculous).  Nell,  free  again,  proceeded 
next  to  rob  the  treasure-chest  of  these  three  miraculous 
uncles  one  night,  and  leave  them  with  their  house  on  fire 


27S  LORD   JEFFREY. 

and  singular  reflections  on  so  delectable  a  niece  ;  after 
whicii,  for  several  years,  she  continued  wandering  in  the 
Border  byways,  smuggling,  stealing,  etc.  ;  only  intermit- 
tently heard  of,  but  steadily  mounting  in  evil  fame,  till  she 
had  become  \.\\q.  facile  princcps  of  Border  devils,  and  was 
considered  a  completely  uncanny  and  quasi-infernal  ob- 
ject. Was  found  twice  over  in  Cumberland  ships,  en- 
deavouring to  get  to  America,  sailors  universally  refusing 
to  lift  anchor  till  she  were  turned  out ;  did  at  length, 
most  probably,  smuggle  herself  through  Liverpool  or 
some  other  place  to  America ;  at  last  vanished  out  of 
Annandale,  and  was  no  more  talked  of  there.  I  have 
seen  her  father  mowing  at  Scotsbrig  as  a  common  day 
labourer  in  subsequent  years,  a  snuffling,  unpleasant,  de- 
ceitful-looking body:  very  ill  thought  of  while  still  a  far- 
mer, and  before  his  Nell  took  to  murdering.  Nell's  three 
miraculous  uncles  were  maternal,  and  were  of  a  very  hon- 
est kin. 

The  merit  of  saving  such  an  item  of  the  world's  popu- 
lation could  not  seem  to  Jeffrey  very  great,  and  it  was 
said  his  brethren  quizzed  him  upon  it,  and  made  him 
rather  uncomfortable.  Long  after  at  Craigenputtoch, 
my  Jcannie  and  I  brought  him  on  the  topic  :  which  he 
evidently  did  not  like  too  well,  but  was  wilhng  to  talk  of 
for  our  sake  and  perhaps  his  own.  He  still  affected  to 
think  it  uncertain  whether  Nell  was  really  guilty  ;  such 
an  intrepidity,  calmness,  and  steadfast  immovability  had 
she  exhibited,  persisting  in  mere  unshaken  "No"  under 
the  severest  trials  by  him  ;  but  there  was  no  persuading 
us  that  he  had  the  least  real  doubt,  and  not  some  real  re- 


LORD   JEFFREY.  2/9 

gret  rather.  Advocate  morality  was  clearly  on  his  side. 
It  is  a  strange  trade,  I  have  often  thought,  that  of  advo- 
cacy. Your  intellect,  your  highest  heavenly  gift,  hung 
up  in  the  shop  window  like  a  loaded  pistol  for  sale  ;  will 
either  blow  out  a  pestilent  scoundrel's  brains,  or  the  scoun- 
drel's salutary  sheriff's  officer's  (in  a  sense),  as  you  please 
to  choose  for  your  guinea  !  Jeffrey  rose  into  higher  and 
higher  professional  repute  from  this  time  ;  and  to  the  last 
was  very  celebrated  as  what  his  satirists  might  have  called 
a  "felon's  friend."  All  this,  however,  was  swallowed 
among  quite  nobler  kinds  of  renown,  both  as  advocate 
and  as  "man  of  letters"  and  as  member  of  society; 
everybody  recognising  his  honourable  ingenuity,  sagacity, 
and  opulent  brilliancy  of  mind  ;  and  nobody  ascribing  his 
felon  help  to  anything  but  a  pitying  disposition  and  readi- 
ness to  exercise  what  faculty  one  has. 

I  seem  to  remember  that  I  dimly  rather  felt  there  was 
something  trivial,  doubtful,  and  not  quite  of  the  highest 
type  in  our  Edinburgh  admiration  for  our  great  lights  and 
law  sages,  and  poor  Jeffrey  among  the  rest ;  but  I  hon- 
estly admired  him  in  a  loose  way  as  my  neighbours  were 
doing,  was  always  glad  to  notice  him  when  I  strolled  into 
the  courts,  and  eagerly  enough  stept  up  to  hear  if  I  found 
him  pleading  ;  a  delicate,  attractive,  dainty  little  figure, 
as  he  merely  walked  about,  much  more  if  he  were  speak- 
ing ;  uncommonly  bright  black  eyes,  instinct  with  viva- 
city, intelligence,  and  kindly  fire  ;  roundish  brow,  deli- 
cate oval  face  full  of  rapid  expression,  figure  light,  nimble, 
pretty  though  so  small,  perhaps  hardly  five  feet  in  height. 
He  had  his  gown,  almost  never  any  wig,  wore  his  black 


280  LORD   JEFFREY. 

hair  rather  closely  cropt ;  I  have  seen  the  back  part  of  it 
jerk  suddenly  out  in  some  of  the  rapid  expressions  of  his 
face,  and  knew  even  if  behind  him  that  his  brow  was  then 
puckered,  and  his  eyes  looking  archly,  half  contemptu- 
ously out,  in  conformity  to  some  conclusive  little  cut  his 
tongue  was  giving.  His  voice,  clear,  harmonious  and 
sonorous,  had  something  of  metallic  in  it,  something  al- 
most plangent ;  never  rose  into  alt,  into  any  dissonance 
or  shrillness,  nor  carried  much  the  character  of  humour, 
thouc:h  a  fine  feeling  of  the  ludicrous  always  dwelt  in  him 
— as  you  would  notice  best  when  he  got  into  Scotch 
dialect,  and  gave  you  with  admirable  truth  of  mimicry, 
old  Edinburgh  incidents  and  experiences  of  his — very 
great  upon  old  "Judge  Baxie,"  "Peter  Peebles"  and 
the  like.  For  the  rest  his  laugh  was  small  and  by  no 
means  Homeric  ;  he  never  laughed  loud  (could  not  do  it, 
I  should  think)  and  indeed  oftener  sniggered  slightly  than 
laughed  in  any  way. 

For  above  a  dozen  or  fourteen  years  I  had  been  out- 
wardly familiar  with  the  figure  of  Jeffrey  before  we  came 
to  any  closer  acquaintance,  or  indeed,  had  the  least  pros- 
pect of  any.  His  sphere  lay  far  away  above  mine  ;  to 
him  in  his  shining  elevation  my  existence  down  among  the 
shadows  was  unknown.  In  May  1814  I  heard  him  once 
pleading  in  the  General  Assembly,  on  some  poor  cause 
there  ;  a  notable,  but  not  the  notablest  thing  to  me,  while 
I  sate  looking  diligently,  though  mostly  as  dramatic  spec- 
tator, into  the  procedure  of  that  venerable  Church  Court 
for  the  first  time,  which  proved  also  the  last.  Queer  old 
figures   there  ;    Hill  of  St.    Andrews,   Johnston    of  Car- 


LORD   JEFFREY.  28 1 

michael,  Dr.  Inglis  with  the  voice  jingHng  in  perpetual 
unforeseen  alternation  between  deep  bass  and  shrill  treble 
(ridiculous  to  hear  though  shrewd  cunning  sense  lay  in  it), 
Dr.  Chalmers  once,  etc.  etc.  ;  all  vanished  now  !  Jeffrey's 
pleading,  the  first  I  had  heard  of  him,  seemed  to  me  abun- 
dantly clever,  full  of  liveliness,  free  flowing  ingenuity  ;  my 
admiration  went  frankly  with  that  of  others,  but  I  think 
was  hardly  of  very  deep  character. 

This  would  be  the  year  I  went  to  Annan  as  teacher  of 
mathematics  ;  not  a  gracious  destiny,  nor  by  any  means 
a  joyful,  indeed  a  hateful,  sorrowful  and  imprisoning  one, 
could  I  at  all  have  helped  it,  which  I  could  not.  My 
second  year  there  at  Rev.  Mr.  Glen's  (reading  Newton's 
"Principia"  till  three  A.M.;  and  voraciously  many  other 
books)  was  greatly  more  endurable,  nay  in  parts  was 
genial  and  spirited,  though  the  paltry  trade  and  ditto  en- 
vironment for  the  most  part  were  always  odious  to  me. 
In  late  autumn  18 16  I  went  to  Kirkcaldy  in  like  capacity, 
though  in  circumstances  (what  with  Edward  Irving's 
company,  what  with,  etc.  etc.)  which  were  far  superior. 
There  in  1818  I  had  come  to  the  grim  conclusion  that 
school-mastering  must  end,  whatever  pleased  to  follow  ; 
that  "  it  were  better  to  perish,"  as  I  exagger^tively  said 
to  myself,  "  than  continue  schoolmastering."  I  made  for 
Edinburgh,  as  did  Irving  too,  intending,  I,  darkly 
towards  potential  "  literature,"  if  I  durst  have  said  or 
thought  so.  But  hope  hardly  dwelt  in  me  on  that  or  on 
any  side  ;  only  fierce  resolution  in  abundance  to  do  my 
best  and  utmost  in  all  honest  ways,  and  to  suffer  as  silently 
and  stoically  as  might  be,  if  it  proved  (as  too  likely  !)  that 


282  LORD   JEFFREY. 

I  could  do  notJiiug.  This  kind  of  humour,  what  I  some- 
limes  called  of  "desperate  hope,"  has  largely  attended 
nic  all  my  life.  In  short,  as  has  been  enough  indicated 
elsewhere,  1  was  advancing  towards  huge  instalments  of 
bodily  and  spiritual  wretchedness  in  this  my  Edinburgh 
purgatory  ;  and  had  to  clean  and  purify  myself  in  penal 
fire  of  various  kinds  for  several  years  coming  ;  the  first 
and  much  the  worst  two  or  three  of  which  were  to  be 
enacted  in  this  once-loved  city.  Horrible  to  think  of  in 
part  even  yet  !  The  bodily  part  of  them  was  a  kind  of 
base  agony  (arising  mainly  in  the  want  of  any  e.xtant  or 
discoverable  fence  between  my  coarser  fellow-creatures 
and  my  more  sensitive  self),  and  might  and  could  easily 
(had  the  age  been  pious  or  thoughtful)  have  been  spared 
a  poor  creature  like  me.  Those  hideous  disturbances  to 
sleep  etc.,  a  very  little  real  care  and  goodness  might  pre- 
vent all  that  ;  and  I  look  back  upon  it  still  with  a  kind  of 
angry  protest,  and  would  have  my  successors  saved  from 
it.  But  perhaps  one  needs  suffering  more  than  at  first 
seems,  and  the  spiritual  agonies  would  not  have  been 
enough  !  These  latter  seem  wholly  blessed  in  retrospect, 
and  were  infinitely  worth  suffering,  with  whatever  addition 
was  needful !     God  be  thanked  always. 

It  was  still  some  eight  or  ten  years  before  any  personal 
contact  occurred  between  Jeffrey  and  me  ;  nor  did  I  ever 
tell  him  what  a  bitter  passage,  known  to  only  one  party, 
there  had  been  between  us.  It  was  probably  in  1819  or 
1820  (the  coldest  winter  I  ever  knew)  that  I  had  taken  a 
most  private  resolution  and  executed  it  in  spite  of  physi- 
cal and  other  misery,  to  try  Jeffrey  with  an  actual  contri- 


LORD   JEFFREY.  283 

bution  to  the  "  Edinburgh  Review."  The  idea  seemed 
great  and  might  be  tried,  though  nearly  desperate.  I 
had  got  hold  somewhere  (for  even  books  were  all  but  in- 
accessible to  me)  of  a  foolish  enough,  but  new  French 
book,  a  mechanical  theory  of  gravitation  elaborately- 
worked  out  by  a  late  foolish  M.  Pictet  (I  think  that  was 
the  name)  in  Geneva.  This  I  carefully  read,  judged  of, 
and  elaborately  dictated  a  candid  account  and  condemna- 
tion of,  or  modestly  firm  contradiction  of  (my  amanuensis 
a  certain  feeble  but  enquiring  quasi-disciple  of  mine  called 
George  Dalgleish  of  Annan,  from  whom  I  kept  my  ulte- 
rior purpose  quite  secret).  Well  do  I  remember  those 
dreary  evenings  in  Bristo  Street ;  oh,  what  ghastly  pas- 
sages and  dismal  successive  spasms  of  attempt  at  "  liter- 
ary enterprise  " — "  Herclii  Selenographia,"  with  poor 
Horrox's  "  Venus  in  Sole  visa,"  intended  for  some  lifeoi 
the  said  Horrox — this  for  one  other  instance  !  I  read  all 
Saussure's  four  quartos  of  Travels  in  Switzerland  too  (and 
still  remember  much  of  it)  I  know  not  with  what  object. 
I  was  banished  solitary  as  if  to  the  bottom  of  a  cave,  and 
blindly  had  to  try  many  impossible  roads  out !  My 
"  Review  of  Pictet "  all  fairly  written  out  in  George 
Dalgleish's  good  clerk  hand,  I  penned  some  brief  polite 
note  to  the  great  editor,  and  walked  off  with  the  small 
parcel  one  night  to  his  address  in  George  Street.  I  very 
well  remember  leaving  it  with  his  valet  there,  and  dis- 
appearing in  the  night  with  various  thoughts  and  doubts  ! 
My  hopes  had  never  risen  high,  or  in  fact  risen  at  all  ; 
but  for  a  fortnight  or  so  they  did  not  quite  die  out,  and 
then  it  was  in  absolute  Zero;  no  answer,  no  return  of  MS., 


284  LORD   JEFFREY. 

absolutely  no  notice  taken,  which  was  a  form  of  catas- 
trophe   more   complete   than    even    I    had    anticipated  ! 
There  rose  in  my  head  a  pungent  little  note  which  might 
be  written  to  the  great  man,  with  neatly  cutting  consider- 
ations offered  him  from  the  small  unknown  ditto  ;  but  I 
wisely  judged  it  was  still  more  dignified  to  let  the  matter 
lie  as  it  was,  and  take  what  I  had  got  for  my  own  benefit 
only.     Nor  did  I  ever  mention  it  to  almost  anybody,  least 
of  all  to  Jeffrey  in  subsequent  changed  times,  when  at  any 
rate  it  was  fallen  extinct.      It  was  my  second,  not  quite 
my  first  attempt  in  that  fashion.     Above  two  years  be- 
fore, from  Kirkcaldy,  I  had  forwarded  to  some  magazine 
editor  in   Edinburgh   what,  perhaps,  was   a  likelier  little 
article  (of  descriptive  tourist  kind  after  a   real  tour  by 
Yarrow  country  into  Annandale)  which  also  vanished  with- 
out sign  ;   not  much  to  my  regret  that  first  one,  nor  indeed 
.  verj'  much  the   second   either  (a  dull   affair  altogether  I 
could  not  but  admit),  and  no  third  adventure  of  the  kind 
lay  ahead  for  me.     It  must  be  owned  my  first  entrances 
into  glorious  "literature"    were  abundantly  stinted  and 
pitiful ;  but  a  man  does  enter   if,  even  with  a  small  gift, 
he  persists  ;  and  perhaps  it  is  no  disadvantage  if  the  door 
be  several  times  slammed  in  his  face,  as  a  preliminary. 

In  spring  1827,  I  suppose  it  must  have  been,  a  letter 
came  to  me  at  Comley  Bank  '  from  Procter  (Barry  Corn- 
wall, my  quondam  London  acquaintance)  offering,  with 
some  "congratulations"  etc.,  to  introduce  me  formally 
to  Jeffrey,  whom  he  certified  to  be  a  "  very  fine  fellow," 
with  much  kindness  in  him  among  his  other  known  quali- 
'  Carlyle's  first  liomc  after  his  marriage  ;  a  suburb  of  Edinburgh. 


LORD   JEFFREY,  285 

ties.  Comley  Bank,  except  for  one  darling  soul,  whose 
heavenly  nobleness,  then  as  ever  afterwards,  shone  on  me, 
and  should  have  made  the  darkest  place  bright  (ah  me, 
ah  me  !  I  only  know  now  how  noble  she  was  \),  was  a 
gloomy  intricate  abode  to  me  ;  and  in  retrospect  has  little 
or  nothing  of  pleasant  but  her.  This  of  Jeffrey,  however, 
had  a  practical  character  of  some  promise  ;  and  I  remem- 
ber striding  off  with  Procter's  introduction  one  evening 
towards  George  Street  and  Jeffrey  (perhaps  by  appoint- 
ment of  hour  and  place  by  himself)  in  rather  good  spirits, 
"  I  shall  see  the  famous  man  then,"  thought  I,  "and  if 
he  can  do  nothing  for  me,  why  not !  "  I  got  ready  ad- 
mission into  Jeffrey's  study,  or  rather  "  office,"  for  it  had 
mostly  that  air  ;  a  roomy,  not  over  neat  apartment  on 
the  ground  floor,  with  a  big  baize-covered  table,  loaded 
with  book  rows  and  paper  bundles.  On  one  or  perhaps 
two  of  the  walls  were  bookshelves  likewise  well  filled,  but 
with  books  in  tattery,  ill-bound  or  unbound  condition. 
"Bad  new  literature  these  will  be,"  thought  I;  "the 
table  ones  are  probably  on  hand  !  "  Five  pair  of  candles 
were  cheerfully  burning,  in  the  light  of  which  sate  my 
famous  little  gentleman  ;  laid  aside  his  work,  cheerfully 
invited  me  to  sit,  and  began  talking  in  a  perfectly  human 
manner.  Our  dialogue  was  perfectly  human  and  success- 
ful ;  lasted  for  perhaps  twenty  minutes  (for  I  could  not 
consume  a  great  man's  time),  turned  upon  the  usual  top- 
ics, what  I  was  doing,  what  I  had  published,  "  German 
Romance,"  translations  my  last  thing  ;  to  which  I  remem- 
ber he  said  kindly,  "We  must  give  you  a  lift,"  an  offer 
which  in  some  complimentary  way  I  managed  to  his  satis- 


286  LORD  JEFFREY. 

faction  to  decline.  My  feeling  with  him  was  that  ot  un- 
cmbarrassment  ;  a  reasonable  veracious  little  man  I  could 
perceive,  with  whom  any  truth  one  felt  good  to  utter 
would  have  a  fair  chance.  Whether  much  w^as  said  of 
German  literature,  whether  anything  at  all  on  my  writing 
of  it  for  him,  I  don't  recollect ;  but  certainly  I  took  my 
leave  in  a  gratified  successful  kind  of  mood  ;  and  both 
those  topics,  the  latter  in  practical  form,  did  soon  abun- 
dantly spring  up  between  us,  with  formal  return  call  by 
him  (which  gave  a  new  speed  to  intimacy),  agreement  for 
a  little  paper  on  "Jean  Paul."  and  whatever  could  follow 
out  of  an  acquaintanceship  well  begun.  The  poor  paper 
on  Jean  Paul,  a  study  piece,  not  without  humour  and  sub- 
stance of  my  own,  appeared  in  (I  suppose)  the  very  next 
"  Edinburgh  Review  "  ;  and  made  what  they  call  a  sensa- 
tion among  the  Edinburgh  buckrams  ;  which  was  greatly 
heightened  next  number  by  the  more  elaborate  and  grave 
article  on  "German  Literature"  generally,  which  set 
many  tongues  wagging,  and  some  few  brains  consider- 
ing, ivJiat  this  strange  monster  could  be  that  was  come 
to  disturb  their  quiescence  and  the  established  order  of 
Nature  !  Some  newspapers  or  newspaper  took  to  de- 
nouncing "the  Mystic  School,"  which  my  bright  little 
woman  declared  to  consist  of  me  alone,  or  of  her  and  me, 
and  for  a  long  while  after  merrily  used  to  designate  us 
by  that  title  ;  "  Mystic  School  "  signifying  lis,  in  the  pretty 
coterie  speech,  which  she  was  always  so  ready  to  adopt, 
and  which  lent  such  a  charm  to  her  talk  and  writing.  She 
was  beautifully  gay  and  hopeful  under  these  improved 
phenomena,  the  darling  soul !     "  Foreign  Review,"  "  For- 


LORD   JEFFREY.  28/ 

eign  Quarterly,"  etc.,  followed,  to  which  I  was  eagerly- 
invited.  Articles  for  Jeffrey  (about  parts  of  Avhich  I  had 
always  to  dispute  with  him)  appeared  also  from  time  to 
time.  In  a  word,  I  was  now  in  a  soit  fairly  launched 
upon  literature,  and  had  even  to  sections  of  the  public 
became  a  "Mystic  School;"  not  quite  prematurely, 
being  now  of  the  age  of  thirty-two,  and  having  had  my 
bits  of  experiences,  and  gotten  really  something  which  I 
wished  much  to  say — and  have  ever  since  been  saying 
the  best  way  I  could. 

After  Jeffrey's  call  at  Comley  Bank,  the  intimacy 
rapidly  increased.  He  was  much  taken  with  my  little 
Jeannie,  as  he  well  might  be  :  one  of  the  brightest  and 
cleverest  creatures  in  the 'whole  world;  full  of  innocent 
rustic  simplicity  and  veracity,  yet  with  the  gracefullest 
discernment,  calmly  natural  deportment ;  instinct  with 
beauty  and  intelligence  to  the  finger-ends  !  He  became, 
in  a  sort,  her  would-be  openly  declared  friend  and  quasi- 
lover  ;  as  was  his  way  in  such  cases.  He  had  much  the 
habit  of  flirting  about  with  women,  especially  pretty 
women,  much  more  the  both  pretty  and  clever  ;  all  in  a 
weakish,  mostly  dramatic,  and  wholly  theoretic  way  (his 
age  now  fifty  gone)  ;  would  daintily  kiss  their  hands  in 
bidding  good  morning,  offer  his  due  homage,  as  he 
phrased  it ;  trip  about,  half  like  a  lap-dog,  half  like  a 
human  adorer,  with  speeches  pretty  and  witty,  always 
of  trifling  import.  I  have  known  some  women  (not  the 
prettiest)  take  offence  at  it,  and  awkwardly  draw  them- 
selves up,  but  without  the  least  putting  him  out.  The 
most  took  it  quietly,  kindly,  and  found  an  entertainment 


2SS  LORD   JEFFREY. 

to  themselves  in  cleverly  answering  it,  as  he  did  in  pertly 
offering  it ;  pertly,  yet  with  something  of  real  reverence, 
and  always  in  a  dexterous  light  way.     Considerable  jeal- 
ousy attended  the  reigning  queen  of  his  circle  among  the 
now  non-reigning :   who  soon  detected  her  position,  and 
f^ave    her    the    triumph    of  their    sometimes    half-visible 
spleen.     An  airy  environment  of  this  kind  was,  wherever 
possible,  a  coveted  charm  in  Jeffrey's  way  of  life.      I  can 
fancy  he  had  seldom  made  such  a  surprising  and  agree- 
able acquaintance  as  this  new  one  at  Comley  Bank  !     My 
little  woman  perfectly  understood  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
the  methods  and  the  rules  of  it ;  and  could  lead  her  clever 
little  gentleman  a  very  pretty  minuet,  as  far  as  she  saw 
good.     They  discovered  mutual  old  cousinships  by  the 
maternal  side,  soon  had  common  topics  enough  :  I  believe 
he  really  pntertained  a  sincere   regard  and  affection  for 
her,  in  the  heart  of  his  theoretic  dangling  ;  which  latter 
continued  unabated  for  several  years  to  come,  with  not  a 
little  quizzing  and  light  interest  on  her  part,  and  without 
shadow  of  offence  on  mine,  or  on  anybody's.      Nay,  I  had 
my  amusements  in  it  too,  so  naive,  humorous  and  pretty 
were  her  bits  of  narratives  about  it,  all  her  procedures  in 
it  so  dainty  delicate  and  sure — the  noble  little  soul !    Sus- 
picion of  her  nobleness  would  have  been  mad  in  me  ;  and 
could  I   grudge  her  the  little  bit   of  entertainment  she 
might  be  able  to  extract  from  this  poor  harmless  sport 
in  a  life  so  grim  as  she  cheerfully  had  with  me  ?     My 
Jcannie  !  oh   my  bonny  little  Jcannie  !    how  did  I  ever 
deserve  so  qucenlike  a  heart  from  thee  ?     Ah  me  ! 

Jeffrey's  acquaintanceship    seemed,   and  was   for  the 


LORD   JEFFREY.  289 

time,  an  immense  acquisition  to  me,  and  everybody  re- 
garded it  as  my  highest  good  fortune  ;  though  in  the  end 
it  did  not  practically  amount  to  much.  Meantime  it  was 
very  pleasant,  and  made  us  feel  as  if  no  longer  cut  off  and 
isolated,  but  fairly  admitted,  or  like  to  be  admitted,  and 
taken  in  tow  by  the  world  and  its  actualities.  Jeffrey  had 
begun  to  feel  some  form  of  bad  health  at  this  time  (some 
remains  of  disease  in  the  trachea,  caught  on  circuit  some- 
where, "  successfully  defending  a  murderess  "  it  was  said). 
He  rode  almost  daily,  in  intervals  of  court  business,  a  slow 
amble,  easy  to  accompany  on  foot ;  and  I  had  much 
walking  with  him,  and  many  a  pleasant  sprightly  dialogue, 
cheerful  to  my  fancy  (as  speech  with  an  important  man) 
but  less  instructive  than  I  might  have  hoped.  To  my  re- 
gret, he  would  not  talk  of  his  experiences  in  the  world, 
which  I  considered  v.'ould  have  been  so  instructive  to  me, 
nor  of  things  concrete  and  current,  but  was  theoretic  gen- 
erally ;  and  seemed  bent  on,  first  of  all,  converting  me 
from  what  he  called  my  "  German  mysticism,"  back 
merely,  as  I  could  perceive,  into  dead  Edinburgh  Whig- 
gism,  scepticism,  and  materialism  ;  which  I  felt  to  be  a 
for  ever  impossible  enterprise.  We  had  long  discussions 
and  argumentative  parry ings  and  thrustings,  which  I  have 
known  continue  night  after  night  till  two  or  three  in  the 
morning  (when  I  was  his  guest  at  Craigcrook,  as  once  or 
twice  happened  in  coming  years)  :  there  we  went  on  in 
brisk  logical  exercise  with  all  the  rest  of  the  house  asleep, 
and  parted  usually  in  good  humour,  though  after  a  game 
which  was  hardly  worth  the  candle.  I  found  him  infinite- 
ly witty,  ingenious,  sharp  of  fence,  but  not  in  any  sense 

19 


290  LORD   JEFFREY. 

deep  ;  and  used  without  difficulty  to  hold  my  own  with 
him.  A  pleasant  enough  exercise,  but  at  last  not  a  very 
profitable  one. 

lie  was  ready  to  have  tried  anything  in  practical  help 
of  me  ;  and  did,  on  hint  given,  try  two  things  :  vacant 
"Professorship  of  Moral  Philosophy  "  at  St.  Andrews; 
ditto  of  something  similar  (perhaps  it  was  "English  Lit- 
erature ")  in  the  new  Gower  Street  University  at  London  ; 
but  both  (thank  heaven  !)  came  summarily  to  nothing. 
Nor  were  his  review  articles  any  longer  such  an  important 
employment  to  me,  nor  had  they  ever  been  my  least 
troublesome  undertakings — plenty  of  small  discrepancy 
about  details  as  we  went  along,  though  no  serious  dis- 
agreement ever,  and  his  treatment  throughout  was  liberal 
and  handsome.  Indeed  he  had  much  patience  with  me,  I 
must  say  ;  for  there  was  throughout  a  singular  freedom  in 
my  way  of  talk  with  him  ;  and  though  far  from  wishing  or 
intending  to  be  disrespectful,  I  doubt  there  was  at  times 
an  unembarrassment  and  frankness  of  hitting  and  repelling, 
which  did  not  quite  beseem  our  respective  ages  and  posi- 
tions. He  never  testified  the  least  oft*ence,  but  possibly 
enough  remembered  it  afterwards,  being  a  thin-skinned 
sensitive  man,  with  all  his  pretended  pococurantism  and 
real  knowledge  of  what  is  called  the  "  world."  I  remem- 
ber pleasant  strolls  out  to  Craigcrook  (one  of  the  prettiest 
places  in  the  world),  where  on  a  Sunday  especially  I 
might  hope,  what  was  itself  a  rarity  with  mc,  to  find  a 
really  companionable  human  acquaintance,  not  to  say  one 
of  such  quality  as  this.  He  would  wander  about  the 
woods  with  me,  looking  on  the  Firth  and  Fife  Hills,  on 


LORD   JEFFREY.  2gi 

the  Pentlands  and  Edinburgh  Castle  and  City  ;  nowhere 
was  there  such  a  view.  Perhaps  he  would  walk  most  of 
the  way  back  with  me ;  quietly  sparkling  and  chatting, 
probably  quizzing  me  in  a  kind  of  way  if  his  wife  were 
with  us,  as  sometimes  happened.  If  I  met  him  in  the 
streets,  in  the  Parliament  House,  or  accidentally  any- 
where, there  ensued,  unless  he  were  engaged,  a  cheerful 
bit  of  talk  and  promenading.  He  frequently  rode  round 
by  Comley  Bank  in  returning  home  :  and  there  I  would 
see  him,  or  hear  something  pleasant  of  him.  He  never 
rode  fast,  but  at  a  walk,  and  his  little  horse  was  steady  as 
machinery.  He  on  horseback,  I  on  foot,  was  a  frequent 
form  of  our  dialogues.  I  suppose  we  must  have  dined 
sometimes  at  Craigcrook  or  Moray  Place  in  this  incipient 
period,  but  don't  recollect. 

The  incipient  period  was  probably  among  the  best, 
though  for  a  long  while  afterwards  there  was  no  falling  off 
in  intimacy  and  good  will.  But  sunrise  is  often  lovelier 
than  noon.  Much  in  this  first  stage  was  not  yet  fulfilment, 
and  was  enhanced  by  the  colours  of  hope.  There  was 
the  new  feeling  too,  of  what  a  precious  conquest  and  ac- 
quisition had  fallen  to  us,  which  all  the  world  might  envy. 
Certainly  in  every  sense  the  adventure  was  a  flattering 
and  cheering  one,  and  did  both  of  us  good.  I  forget  how 
long  it  had  lasted  before  our  resolution  to  remove  to 
Craigenputtoch  came  to  be  fulfilled,  it  seems  to  me  some 
six  or  eight  months.  The  flitting  to  Craigenputtoch  took 
place  in  May  1828  ;  we  stayed  a  week  in  Moray  Place 
(Jeffrey's  fine  new  house  there)  after  our  furniture  was  on 
the  road,  and  we  were  waiting  till  it  should  arrive  and 


292  LORD   JEFFREY. 

render  a  new  home  possible  amid  the  moors  and  moun- 
tains. Jeffrey  promised  to  follow  us  thither,  with  wife 
and  daughter  for  three  days  in  vacation  time  ensuing,  to 
see  what  kind  of  a  thing  we  were  making  of  it,  which  of 
course  was  great  news.  Doubtless  he,  like  most  of  my 
Edinburgh  acquaintances  had  been  strongly  dissuasive 
of  the  step  we  were  taking;  but  his  or  other  people's  ar- 
guments availed  nothing,  and  I  have  forgotten  them. 
The  step  had  been  well  meditated,  saw  itself  to  be  founded 
on  irrefragable  considerations  of  health,  finance,  etc.  etc., 
unknown  to  bystanders,  and  could  not  be  forborne  or  al- 
tered. "  J  will  come  and  see  you  at  any  rate,"  said  Jef- 
frey, and  dismissed  us  with  various  expressions  of  interest, 
and  no  doubt  with  something  of  real  regret. 

Of  our  history  at  Craigenputtoch  there  might  a  great 
deal  be  written  which  might  amuse  the  curious  ;  for  it  was 
in  fact  a  very  singular  scene  and  arena  for  such  a  pair  as 
my  darling  and  me,  with  such  a  life  ahead  ;  and  bears 
some  analogy  to  the  settlenlent  of  Robinson  Crusoe  in 
his  desert  isle,  surrounded  mostly  by  the  wild  popula- 
tions, not  wholly  helpful  or  even  harmless  ;  and  requiring 
for  its  equipment  into  habitability  and  convenience  infi- 
nite contrivance,  patient  adjustment,  and  natural  ingenu- 
ity in  the  head  of  Robinson  himself.  It  is  a  history  which 
I  by  no  means  intend  to  write,  with  such  or  with  any  ob- 
ject. To  me  there  is  a  sacredness  of  interest  in  it  consist- 
ent only  with  silejice.  It  was  the  field  of  endless  noble- 
ness and  beautiful  talent  and  virtue  in  her  who  is  now 
gone  ;  also  of  good  industry,  and  many  loving  and  blessed 
thoughts  in  myself,  while  living  there  by  her  side.     Pov- 


LORD   JEFFREY.  293 

erty  and  mean  obstruction  had  given  origin  to  it,  and  con- 
tinued to  preside  over  it ;  but  were  transformed  by  hu- 
man valour  of  various  sorts  into  a  kind  of  victory  and  roy- 
alty.     Something   of  high  and  great  dwelt  in  it,  though 
nothine  could  be  smaller  and  lower  than  many  of  the  de- 
tails.      How  blessed  might  poor  mortals  be  in  the  straitest 
circumstances,  if  only  their  wisdom  and  fidelity  to  Heaven 
and  to  one  another  were  adequately  great !   It  looks  to  me 
now  like  a  kind  of  humble  russet-coated  epic,  that  seven 
years'   settlement   at   Craigenputtoch,    very   poor  in   this 
world's  goods  but  not  without  an  intrinsic  dignity  greater 
and   more   important   than  then   appeared ;    thanks  very 
mainly  to  her,  and  her  faculties  and  magnanimities,  with-' 
out  whom  it  had  not  been  possible.      I  incline  to  think  it 
the  poor  best  place  that  could  have  been  selected  for  the 
ripening  into  fixity   and   composure   of   anything    useful 
which  there  may  have  been  in  me  against  the  years  that 
were  coming.      And  it  is   certain  that  for  living  in   and 
thinking  in,  I  have  never  since  found  in  the  world  a  place 
so  favourable.     And  we  were  driven  and  pushed  into  it, 
as   if  by  necessity,  and   its   beneficent  though    ugly  little 
shocks  and  pushes,  shock  after  shock,  gradually  compel- 
ling us  thither!     "  For  a  divinity  doth  shape  our  ends, 
rough  hew  them  how  we  may."     Often  in  my  life  have  I 
been  brought  to  think  of  this,  as  probably  every  consider- 
ing person  is  ;   and   looking   before   and   after,  have   felt, 
though  reluctant  enough  to  believe  in  the  importance  or 
significance  of  so  infinitesimally  small  an  atom  as  oneself, 
that  the  doctrine  of  a  special  providence  is  in  some  sort 
natural  to  man.     All  piety  points  that  way,  all  logic  points 


294  LORD   JEFFREY. 

the  other ;  one  has  in  one's  darkness  and  limitation  a 
trembling  faith,  and  can  at  least  with  the  voices  say, "  Wir 
/icissen  cuch  hoffcn,''  if  it  be  the  will  of  the  Highest. 

The  Jeffreys  failed  not  to  appear  at  Craigenputtoch  ; 
their  big  carriage  climbed  our  rugged  hill-roads,  landed 
the  three  guests— Charlotte  ("  Sharlie  ")  with  pa  and  ma 
— and  the  clever  old  valet  maid  that  waited  on  them  ; 
stood  three  days  under  its  glazed  sheeting  in  our  little 
back  court,  nothing  like  a  house  got  ready  for  it,  and  in- 
deed all  the  outhouses  and  appurtenances  still  in  a  much 
unfinished  state,  and  only  the  main  house  quite  ready  and 
habitable.  The  visit  was  pleasant  and  successful,  but  I 
recollect  few  or  no  particulars.  Jeffrey  and  I  rode  one 
day  (or  perhaps  this  was  on  another  visit  ?)  round  by  the 
flank  of  Dunscore  Craig,  the  Shillingland  and  Craigenery ; 
and  took  a  view  of  Loch  Gor  and  the  black  moorlands 
round  us,  with  the  Granite  mountains  of  Galloway  over- 
hanging in  the  distance  ;  not  a  beautiful  landscape,  but  it 
answered  as  well  as  another.  Our  party,  the  head  of  it 
especially,  was  chatty  and  cheery  ;  but  I  remember  noth- 
ing so  well  as  the  consummate  art  with  which  my  dear 
one  played  the  domestic  field-marshal,  and  spread  out  our 
exiguous  resources,  without  fuss  or  bustle  ;  to  cover  every- 
thing a  coat  of  hospitality  and  even  elegance  and  abun- 
dance. I  have  been  in  houses  ten  times,  nay  a  hundred 
times  as  rich,  where  things  went  not  so  well.  Though 
never  bred  to  this,  but  brought  up  in  opulent  plenty  by 
a  mother  that  could  bear  no  partnership  in  housekeeping, 
she  finding  it  become  necessary,  loyally  applied  herself  to 
it,  and  soon  surpassed  in  it  all  the  women  I  have  ever 


LORD   JEFFREY.  295 

seen.  My  noble  one,  how  beautiful  has  our  poverty  made 
thee  to  me  !  She  was  so  true  and  frank  withal ;  nothing 
o.f  the  skulking  Balderstone  in  her.  One  day  at  dinner, 
I  remember,  Jeffrey  admired  the  fritters  orbits  of  pancake 
he  was  eating,  and  she  let  him  know,  not  without  some 
vestige  of  shock  to  him,  that  she  had  made  them. 
"What,  you  !  twist  up  the  frying-pan  and  catch  them  in 
the  air  ?  "  Even  so,  my  high  friend,  and  you  may  turn  it 
over  in  your  mind  !  On  the  fourth  or  third  day  the  Jef- 
freys went,  and  "carried  off  our  little  temporary  para- 
dise," as  I  sorrowfully  expressed  it  to  them,  while  shutting 
their  coach  door  in  our  back  yard  ;  to  which  bit  of  pathos 
Jeffrey  answered  by  a  friendly  little  sniff  of  quasi-mockery 
or  laughter  through  the  nose,  and  rolled  prosperously 
away. 

They  paid  at  least  one  other  visit,  probably  not  just 
next  year,  but  the  one  following.  We  met  them  by  ap- 
pointment at  Dumfries  (I  think  in  the  intervening  year), 
and  passed  a  night  with  them  in  the  King's  Arms  there, 
which  I  well  enough  recollect;  huge  ill-kept  "  head  inn," 
bed  opulent  in  bugs,  waiter  a  monstrous  baggy  unwieldy 
old  figure,  hebetated,  dreary,  as  if  parboiled  ;  upon  whom 
Jeffrey  quizzed  his  daughter  at  breakfast,  "  Comes  all  of 
eating  eggs,  Sharlie  ;  poor'  man  as  good  as  owned  it  to 
me  !  "  After  breakfast  he  went  across  with  my  wife  to 
visit  a  certain  Mrs.  Richardson,  authoress  of  some  novels, 
really  a  superior  kind  of  woman  and  much  a  lady  ;  who 
had  been  an  old  flame  of  his,  perhaps  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years  before.  "These  old  loves  don't  do,"  said 
Mrs.  Jeffrey  with  easy  sarcasm,  who  was  left  behind  with 


296  LORD   JEFFREY. 

mc.  And  accordingly  there  had  been  some  embarrass- 
ment I  after  found,  but  on  both  sides  a  gratifying  of 
some  good  though  melancholy  feelings. 

This  j\Irs.  Jeffrey  was  the  American  Miss  Wilkes, 
whose  marriage  with  Jeffrey,  or  at  least  his  voyage  across 
to  marry  her,  had  made  considerable  noise  in  its  time. 
She  was  mother  of  this  "  Sharlie  "  (who  is  now  the  widow 
Mrs.  Empson,  a  morbidly  shy  kind  of  creature,  who  lives 
withdrawn  among  her  children  at  Harrogate  and  such 
places).  Jeffrey  had  no  other  child.  His  first  wife,  a 
Hunter  of  St.  Andrews,  had  died  very  soon.  This  sec- 
ond, the  American  Miss  Wilkes,  was  from  Pennsylvania, 
actual  brother's  daughter  of  our  demagogue  "  Wilkes," 
She  was  sister  of  the  "  Commodore  Wilkes  "  who  boarded 
the  Trent  some  years  ago,  and  almost  involved  us  in  war 
with  Yankeeland,  during  that  beautiful  Nigger  agony  or 
"civil  war"  of  theirs!'  She  was  roundish-featured,  not 
pretty  but  comely,  a  sincere  and  hearty  kind  of  woman, 
with  a  great  deal  of  clear  natural  insight,  often  sarcasti- 
cally turned  ;  to  which  a  certain  nervous  tic  or  jerk  of 
the  head  gave  new  emphasi^s  or  singularity  ;  for  her  talk 
went  roving  about  in  a  loose  random  way,  and  hit  down 
like  a  flail  unexpectedly  on  this  or  that,  with  the  jerk  for 
accompaniment,  in  a  really  genial  fashion.  She  and  I 
were  mutual  favourites.  She  liked  my  sincerity  as  I  hers. 
The  daughter  Charlotte  had  inherited  her  nervous  infirm- 

'  Some  years  after  these  words  were  written,  Carlyle  read  "  The  Harvard 
Memorial  Biographies."  He  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  account  of  the 
gallant  young  men  whose  lives  are  there  described,  and  said  to  me,  "  Perhaps 
there  was  more  in  that  matter  after  all  than  I  was  aware  of."— J.  A.  F. 


LORD   JEFFREY.  297 

ity,  and  indeed  I  think  was  partly  lame  of  one  arm  ;  for 
the  rest  an  inferior  specimen  to  either  of  her  parents  ;  ab- 
struse, suspicious,  timid,  enthusiastic  ;  and  at  length,  on 
death  of  her  parents  and  of  her  good  old  jargoning  hus- 
band, Empson  (a  long-winded  Edinburgh  Reviewer,  much 
'an  adorer  of  Macaulay  etc.) became  quite  a  morbid  exclu- 
sive character,  and  lives  withdrawn  as  above.  Perhaps 
she  was  already  rather  jealous  of  us  ?  She  spoke  very 
little  ;  wore  a  half-pouting,  half-mocking  expression,  and 
had  the  air  of  a  prettyish  spoiled  child. 

The  "  old  love  "  business  finished,  our  friends  soon 
rolled  away,  and  left  us  to  go  home  at  leisure,  in  our 
good  old  gig  (value  11/.)  which  I  always  look  back  upon 
with  a  kind  of  veneration,  so  sound  and  excellent  was  it, 
though  so  unfashionable  ;  the  conquest  of  good  Alick,  my 
ever  shifty  brother,  which  carried  us  many  a  pleasant  mile 
till  Craigenputtoch  ended.  Probably  the  Jeffreys  were 
bound  for  Cumberland  on  this  occasion,  to  see  Brougham  ; 
of  whom,  as  I  remember,  Mrs.  Jeffrey  spoke  to  me  with 
candour,  not  with  enthusiasm,  during  that  short  "  old 
love  "  absence.  Next  year,  it  must  have  been,  they  all 
came  again  to  Craigenputtoch,  and  with  more  success 
than  ever. 

One  of  the  nights  there,  on  this  occasion,  encouraged 
possibly  by  the  presence  of  poor  James  Anderson,  an  in- 
genuous, simple,  youngish  man,  and  our  nearest  gentle- 
man neighbour,  Jeffrey  in  the  drawing-room  was  cleverer, 
brighter,  and  more  amusing  than  I  ever  saw  him  else- 
where. We  had  got  to  talk  of  public  speaking,  of  which 
Jeffrey  had  plenty  to  say,  and  found  Anderson  and  all  of 


2gS  LORD   JEFFREY. 

US  ready  enough  to  hear.  Before  long  he  fell  into  mim- 
icking- of  public  speakers,  men  unknown,  perhaps  imagi- 
nary generic  specimens  ;  and  did  it  with  such  a  felicity, 
flowing  readiness,  ingenuity  and  perfection  of  imitation  as 
I  never  saw  equalled,  and  had  not  given  him  credit  for 
before.  Our  cosy  little  drawing-room,  bright-shining,* 
hidden  in  the  lowly  wilderness,  how  beautiful  it  looked  to 
us,  become  suddenly  as  it  were  a  Temple  of  the  Muses. 
The  little  man  strutted  about  full  of  electric  fire,  with 
attitudes,  with  gesticulations,  still  more  with  winged  words, 
often  broken-winged,  amid  cur  admiring  laughter  ;  gave 
us  the  windy  grandfloquent  specimen,  the  ponderous  stu- 
pid, the  airy  ditto,  various  specimens,  as  the  talk,  chiefly 
his  own.  spontaneously  suggested,  of  which  there  was  a 
little  preparatory  interstice  between  each  two.  And  the 
mimicry  was  so  complete,  you  would  have  said  not  his 
mind  only,  but  his  very  body  became  the  specimen's,  his 
face  filled  with  the  expression  represented,  and  his  little 
figure  seeming  to  grow  gigantic  if  the  personage  required 
it.  At  length  he  gave  us  the  abstruse  costive  specimen, 
which  had  a  meaning  and  no  utterance  for  it,  but  went 
about  clambering,  stumbling,  as  on  a  path  of  loose  boul- 
ders, and  ended  in  total  downbreak,  amid  peals  of  the 
heartiest  laughter  from  us  all.  This  of  the  aerial  little 
sprite  standing  there  in  fatal  collapse,  with  the  brightest 
of  eyes  sternly  gazing  into  utter  nothingness  and  dumb- 
ness, was  one  of  the  most  tickling  and  genially  ludicrous 
things  I  ever  saw  ;  and  it  prettily  winded  up  our  little 
drama.  I  often  thought  of  it  afterwards,  and  of  what  a 
part   mimicry  plays    among  human  gifts.      In   its  lowest 


LORD   JEFFREY.  299 

phase  no  talent  can  be  lower  (for  even  the  Papuans  and 
monkeys  have  it)  ;  but  in  its  highest,  where  it  gives  you 
domicile  in  the  spiritual  world  of  a  Shakspeare  or  a 
Goethe,  there  are  only  some  few  that  are  higher.  No 
clever  man,  I  suppose,  is  originally  without  it.  Dick- 
ens's essential  faculty,  I  often  say,  is  that  of  a  first-rate 
play-actor.  Had  he  been  born  twenty  or  forty  years 
sooner,  we  should  most  probably  have  had  a  second  and 
greater  Mathews,  Incledon,  or  the  like,  and  no  writing 
Dickens. 

It  was  probably  next  morning  after  this  (one  of  these 
mornings  it  certainly  was),  that  we  received,  i.e.  Jeffrey 
did  (I  think  through  my  brother  John,  then  vaguely  trying 
for  "medical  practice"  in  London,  and  present  on  the 
scene  referred  to),  a  sternly  brief  letter  from  poor  Hazlitt, 
to  the  effect  and  almost  in  the  words,  "Dear  sir,  I  am 
dying  ;  can  you  send  me  10/.,  and  so  consummate  your 
many  kindnesses  to  me  ?  W.  Hazlitt."  This  was  for 
Jeffrey;  my  brother's  letter  to  me,  enclosing  it,  would  of 
course  elucidate  the  situation.  Jeffrey,  with  true  sympa- 
thy, at  once  wrote  a  cheque  for  S^l.,  and  poor  Hazlitt 
died  in  peace,  from  duns  at  least.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
old  friends  about,  to  have  been  left  in  his  poor  lodging  to 
the  humanity  of  medical  people  and  transient  recent  ac- 
quaintances ;  and  to  have  died  in  a  grim  stoical  humour, 
like  a  worn-out  soldier  in  hospital.  The  new  doctor  peo- 
ple reckoned  that  a  certain  Dr.  Darling,  the  first  called 
in,  had  fatally  mistreated  him.  Hazlitt  had  just  finished 
his  toilsome,  unrewarded  (not  quite  worthless)  "  Life  of 
Napoleon,"  which  at  least  recorded  his  own  loyal  admira- 


300  LORD   JEFFREY. 

tion  and  quasi-adoration  of  that  questionable  person  ; 
after  wliich  he  felt  excessively  worn  and  low,  and  was  by 
unlucky  Dr.  Darling  recommended,  not  to  port  wine, 
brown  soup,  and  the  like  generous  regimen,  but  to  a 
course  of  purgatives  and  blue  pill,  which  irrecoverably 
wasted  his  last  remnants  of  strength,  and  brought  him  to 
his  end  in  this  sad  way.  Poor  Hazlitt !  he  was  never  ad- 
mirable to  me  ;  but  I  had  my  estimation  of  him,  my  pity 
for  him  ;  a  man  recognisably  of  fine  natural  talents  and 
aspirations,  but  of  no  sound  culture  whatever,  and  flung 
into  the  roaring  cauldron  of  stupid,  prurient,  anarchic 
London,  there  to  try  if  he  could  find  some  culture  for 
himself. 

This  was  Jeffrey's  last  visit  to  Craigenputtoch.  I  forget 
when  it  was  (probably  next  autumn  late)  that  we  made 
our  fortnight's  visit  to  Craigcrook  and  him.  That  was  a 
shining  sort  of  affair,  but  did  not  in  effect  accomplish 
much  for  any  of  us.  Perhaps,  for  one  thing,  we  stayed 
too  long,  Jeffrey  was  beginning  to  be  seriously  incom- 
moded in  health,  had  bad  sleep,  cared  not  how  late  he 
sat,  and  we  had  now  more  than  ever  a  series  of  sharp 
fencing  bouts,  night  after  night,  which  could  decide 
nothing  for  either  of  us,  except  our  radical  incompatibility 
in  respect  of  world  theory,  and  the  incurable  divergence 
of  our  opinions  on  the  most  important  matters,  "You 
are  so  dreadfully  in  earnest  !  "  said  he  to  me  once  or 
oftener.  Besides,  I  own  now  I  was  deficient  in  reverence 
to  him,  and  had  not  then,  nor,  alas !  have  ever  acquired 
in  my  solitary  and  mostly  silent  existence,  the  art  of  gen- 
tly saying  strong  things,  or  of  insinuating  my  dissent, 


LORD   JEFFREY.  3OI 

instead  of  uttering  it  right  out  at  the  risk  of  offence  or 
otherwise.  At  bottom  I  did  not  find  his  the  highest  kind 
of  insight  in  regard  to  any  province  whatever.  In  Htera- 
ture  he  had  a  respectable  range  of  reading,  but  discovered 
Httle  serious  study  ;  and  had  no  views  which  I  could  adopt 
in  preference  [to  my  own].  On  all  subjects  I  had  to  re- 
fuse him  the  title  of  deep,  and  secretly  to  acquiesce  in 
much  that  the  new  opposition  party  (Wilson,  Lockhart, 
etc.,  who  had  broken  out  so  outrageously  in  "Black- 
wood "  for  the  last  ten  years)  were  alleging  against  the 
old  excessive  Edinburgh  hero-worship ;  an  unpleasant 
fact,  which'  probably  was  not  quite  hidden  to  so  keen  a 
pair  of  eyes.  One  thing  struck  me  in  sad  elucidation  of 
his  forensic  glories.  I  found  that  essentially  he  was  always 
as  if  speaking  to  a  jury  ;  that  the  thing  of  which  he  could 
not  convince  fifteen  clear-headed  men,  was  to  him  a  no- 
thing, good  only  to  be  flung  over  the  lists,  and  left  lying 
without  notice  farther.  This  seemed  to  me  a  very  sad 
result  of  law  !  For  "  the  highest  cannot  be  spoken  of  in 
words,"  as  Goethe  truly  says,  as  in  fact  all  truly  deep  men 
say  or  know.  I  urged  this  on  his  consideration  now  and 
then,  but  without  the  least  acceptance.  These  "  stormy 
sittings,"  as  Mrs.  Jeffrey  laughingly  called  them,  did  not 
improve  our  relation  to  one  another.  But  these  were  the 
last  we  had  of  that  nature.  In  other  respects  Edinburgh 
had  been  barren  ;  effulgences  of  "  Edinburgh  society," 
big  dinners,  parties,  we  in  due  measure  had  ;  but  nothing 
there  was  very  interesting  either  to  her  or  to  me,  and  all 
of  it  passed'  away  as  an  obliging  pageant  merely.  Well 
do  I  remember  our  return  to  Craigenputtoch,  after  night- 


302  LORD   JEFFREY. 

fall,  amid  the  clammy  yellow  leaves  and  desolate  rains, 
with  the  clink  of  Alick's  stithy  alone  audible  of  human, 
and  have  marked  it  elsewhere. 

A  great  deal  of  correspondence  there  still  was,  and  all 
along  had  been  ;  many  Jeffrey  letters  to  me  and  many  to 
her,  which  were  all  cheerfully  answered,  I  know  not  what 
has  become  of  all  these  papers  ; '  by  me  they  never  were 
destroyed,  though  indeed,  neither  hers  nor  mine  were 
ever  of  much  importance  except  for  the  passing  moment. 
I  ought  to  add  that  Jeffrey,  about  this  time  (next  summer  I 
should  think),  generously  offered  to  confer  on  me  an  annu- 
ity of  lOO/.,  which  annual  sum,  had  it  fallen  on  me  from 
the  clouds,  would  have  been  of  very  high  convenience  at 
that  time,  but  which  I  could  not  for  a  moment  have 
dreamt  of  accepting  as  gift  or  subventionary  help  from 
any  fellow-mortal.  It  was  at  once  in  my  handsomest, 
gratefullest,  but  brief  and  conclusive  way  [declined]  from 
Jeffrey:  "Republican  equality  the  silently  fixed  law  of 
human  society  at  present ;  each  man  to  live  on  his  own 
resources,  and  have  an  equality  of  economies  with  every 
other  man  ;  dangerous  a,nd  not  possible,  except  through 
cowardice  or  folly,  to  depart  from  said  clear  rule,  till  per- 
haps a  better  era  rise  on  us  again  !  "  Jeffrey  returned  to 
the  charge  twice  over  in  handsome  enough  sort ;  but  my 
new  answer  was  in  briefest  words  a  repetition  of  the  former, 
and  the  second  time  I  answered  nothing  at  all,  but  stood 
by  other  topics  ;  upon  which  the  matter  dropped  alto- 
gether. It  was  not  mere  pride  of  mine  that  frustrated 
this  generous  resolution,  but  sober  calculation  as  well,  and 
'  All  preserved  and  in  my  possession. — Editor. 


LORD   JEFFREY.  303 

correct  weighing  of  the  results  probable  in  so  dangerous 
a  copartnery  as  that  proposed.  In  no  condition  well  con- 
ceivable to  me  could  such  a  proposal  have  been  accepted, 
and  though  I  could  not  doubt  but  Jeffrey  had  intended  an 
act  of  real  generosity,  for  which  I  was  and  am  grateful, 
perhaps  there  was  something  in  the  manner  of  it  that 
savoured  of  consciousness  and  of  screwing  one's  self  up 
to  the  point ;  less  of  godlike  pity  for  a  fine  fellow  and  his 
struggles,  than  of  human  determination  to  do  a  fine  action 
of  one's  own,  which  might  add  to  the  promptitude  of  my 
refusal.  He  had  abundance  of  money,  but  he  was  not  of 
that  opulence  which  could  render  such  an  "  annuity,"  in 
case  I  should  accept  it,  totally  insensible  to  him  ;  I  there- 
fore endeavoured  all  the  more  to  be  thankful  ;  and  if  the 
heart  would  not  quite  do  (as  was  probably  the  case), 
forced  the  intellect  to  take  part,  which  it  does  at  this  day. 
Jeffrey's  beneficence  was  undoubted,  and  his  gifts  to  poor 
people  in  distress  were  a  known  feature  of  his  way  of  life. 
I  once,  some  months  after  this,  borrowed  100/.  from  him, 
my  pitiful  bits  of  "  periodical  literature  "  incomings  having 
gone  awry  (as  they  were  too  liable  to  do),  but  was  able,  I 
still  remember  with  what  satisfaction,  to  repay  punctually 
within  a  few  weeks  ;  and  this  was  all  of  pecuniary  chivalry 
we  two  ever  had  between  us. 

Probably  he  was  rather  cooling  in  his  feelings  towards 
me,  if  they  ever  had  been  very  warm  ;  so  obstinate  and 
rugged  had  he  found  me,  "  so  dreadfully  in  earnest !  " 
And  now  the  time  of  the  Reform  Bill  was  coming  on  ; 
Jeffrey  and  all  high  Whigs  getting  summoned  into  an  of- 
ficial career  ;    and  a  scene  opening  which  (in  effect),  in- 


304  LORD   JEFFREY. 

stead  of  irradiating  with  new  glory  and  value,  completely- 
clouded  the  remaining  years  of  Jeffrey's  life.  His  health 
had  for  some  years  been  getting  weaker,  and  proved  now 
unequal  to  his  new  honours  ;  that  was  the  fatal  circum- 
stance which  rendered  all  the  others  irredeemable.  He  was 
not  what  you  could  call  ambitious,  rather  the  reverse  of 
that,  though  he  relished  public  honours,  especially  if  they 
could  be  interpreted  to  signify  public  love.  I  remember 
his  great  pleasure  in  having  been  elected  Dean  of  Faculty, 
perhaps  a  year  or  so  before  this  very  thing  of  Reform  agi- 
tation, and  my  surprise  at  the  real  delight  he  showed  in 
this  proof  of  general  regard  from  his  fellow- advocates. 
But  now,  ambitious  or  not,  he  found  the  career  flung 
open,  all  barriers  thrown  down,  and  was  forced  to  enter, 
all  the  world  at  his  back  crushing  him  in. 

He  was,  naturally,  appointed  Lord  Advocate  (political 
president  of  Scotland),  had  to  get  shoved  into  Parliament 
— some  vacancy  created  for  him  by  the  great  Whigs — 
"  Malton  in  Yorkshire  "  the  place,  and  was  whirled  away 
to  London  and  public  life  ;  age  now  about  fifty-six  and 
health  bad.  I  remember  in  his  correspondence  considera- 
ble misgivings  and  gloomy  forecastings  about  all  this, 
which  in  my  inexperience  and  the  general  exultation  then 
prevalent  I  had  treated  with  far  less  regard  than  they 
merited.  He  found  them  too  true  ;  and  what  I,  as  a  by- 
stander, could  not  quite  see  till  long  after,  that  his  worst 
expectations  were  realised.  The  exciting  agitated  scene 
abroad  and  at  home,  the  unwholesome  hours,  bad  air, 
noisy  hubbub  of  St.  Stephen's,  and  at  home  the  incessant 
press  of  crowds,  and    of  business    mostly  new  to   him. 


LORD   JEFFREY.  305 

rendered  his  life  completely  miserable,  and  gradually- 
broke  down  his  health  altogether.  He  had  some  momen- 
tary glows  of  exultation,  and  dashed  off  triumphant  bits^ 
of  letters  to  my  wife,  which  I  remember  we  both  of  us 
thought  somewhat  juvenile  and  idyllic  (especially  one 
written  in  the  House  of  Commons  library,  just  after  his 
"  great  speech,"  and  "  with  the  cheers  of  that  House  still 
ringing  in  my  ears"),  and  which  neither  of  us  pitied  withal 
to  the  due  degree.  For  there  was  in  the  heart  of  all  of 
them — even  of  that  "  great  speech  "  one — a  deep  misery 
traceable  ;  a  feeling  how  blessed  the  old  peace  and  rest 
would  be,  and  that  peace  and  rest  were  now  fled  far 
away  !  We  laughed  considerably  at  this  huge  hurlyburly, 
comparable  in  certain  features  to  a  huge  Sorcerers'  Sab- 
bath, prosperously  dancing  itself  out  in  the  distance  ;  and 
little  knew  how  lucky  we  were,  instead  of  unlucky  (as 
perhaps  was  sometimes  one's  idea  in  perverse  moments) 
to  have  no  concern  with  it  except  as  spectators  in  the 
shilling  gallery  or  the  two-shilling  ! 

About  the  middle  of  August,  as  elsewhere  marked,  I 
set  off  for  London,  with  "  Sartor  Resartus  "  in  my  pocket. 
I  found  Jeffrey  much  preoccupied  and  bothered,  but  will- 
ing to  assist  me  with  Bookseller  Murray  and  the  like,  and 
studious  to  be  cheerful.  He  lived  in  Jermyn  Street,  wife 
and  daughter  with  him,  in  lodgings  at  11/.  a  week,  in 
melancholy  contrast  to  the  beautiful  tenements  and  per- 
fect equipments  they  had  left  in  the  north.  On  the  ground 
floor,  in  a  room  of  fair  size,  was  a  kind  of  secretary,  a 
blear-eyed,  tacit  Scotch  figure,  standing   or  sitting  at  a 

desk  with  many  papers.     This  room  seemed  also  to  be 
20 


306  LORD   JEFFREY. 

ante-room  or  waiting-room,  into  which  I  was  once  or  twice 
shown  if  important  company  was  upstairs.  The  secre- 
tary never  spoke  ;  hardly  even  answered  if  spoken  to,  ex- 
cept by  an  ambiguous  smile  or  sardonic  grin.  He  seemed 
a  shrewd  enough  fellow,  and  to  stick  faithfully  by  his  own 
trade.  Upstairs  on  the  first  floor  were  the  apartments  of 
the  family ;  Lord  Advocate's  bedroom  the  back  portion 
of  the  sitting-room,  shut  off  from  it  merely  by  a  folding 
door.  If  I  called  in  the  morning,  in  quest  perhaps  of  let- 
ters (though  I  don't  recollect  much  troubling  him  in  that 
way),  I  would  find  the  family  still  at  breakfast,  ten  A.M.  or 
later  ;  and  have  seen  poor  Jeffrey  emerge  in  flowered 
dressing-gown,  with  a  most  boiled  and  suffering  expres- 
sion of  face,  like  one  who  had  slept  miserably,  and  now 
awoke  mainly  to  paltry  misery  and  bother  ;  poor  official 
man  !  "I  am  made  a  mere  post  ofiice  of  !  "  I  heard  him 
once  grumble,  after  tearing  up  several  packets,  not  one 
of  which  was  internally  for  himself. 

Later  in  the  day  you  were  apt  to  find  certain  Scotch 
people  dangling  about,  on  business  or  otherwise,  Ruther- 
ford the  advocate  a  frequent  figure,  I  never  asked  or 
guessed  on  what  errand  ;  he,  florid  fat  and  joyous,  his  old 
chieftain  very  lean  and  dreary.  On  the  whole  I  saw  little 
of  the  latter  in  those  first  weeks,  and  might  have  recognised 
more  than  I  did,  how  to  me  he  strove  always  to  be  cheer- 
ful and  obliging,  though  himself  so  heavy-laden  and  in- 
ternally wretched.  One  day  he  did  my  brother  John,  for 
my  sake  (or  perhaps  for  hers  still  more)  an  easy  service 
which  proved  very  important.  A  Dr.  Baron,  of  Glou- 
cester, had  called  one  day,  and  incidentally  noticed  that 


LORD   JEFFREY.  30/ 

"  the  Lady  Clare  "  (a  great  though  most  unfortunate  and 
at  length  professedly  valetudinary  lady)  "  wanted  a  travel- 
ling physician,  being  bound  forthwith  to  Rome."  Jeffrey, 
the  same  day,  on  my  calling,  asked  "  Wouldn't  it  suit  your 
brother  ?  "  and  in  a  day  or  two  the  thing  was  completely 
settled,  and  John,  to  his  and  our  great  satisfaction  (I  still 
remember  him  on  the  coach-box  in  Regent  Circus),  under 
way  into  his  new  Roman  locality,  and  what  proved  his 
new  career.  My  darling  had  arrived  before  this  last  step 
of  the  process,  and  was  much  obliged  by  what  her  little 
"  Duke"  had  done.  Duke  was  the  name  we  called  him 
by  ;  for  a  foolish  reason  connected  with  one  of  Macaulay's 
swaggering  articles  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  and  an 
insolent  response  to  it  in  "  Blackwood."  "  Horsewhipped 
by  a  duke,"  had  said  Macaulay  of  his  victim  in  the  ar- 
ticle :  "Duke!  quotha!"  answered  Blackwood;  "such 
a  set  of  dukes  !  "  and  hinted  that  "  Duke  Macaulay  "  and 
"  the  Duke  of  Craigcrook  "  were  extremely  unheraldic 
dignitaries  both  of  them  ! 

By  my  Jeannie  too  had  come  for  John  and  me  the  last 
note  we  ever  had  from  our  father.  It  was  full  of  the  pro- 
foundest  sorrow  (now  that  I  recall  it)  "drawing  nigh  to 
the  gates  of  death  :  "  which  none  of  us  regarded  as  other 
than  common  dispiritment,  and  the  weak  chagrin  of  old 
age.  Ah  me,  how  blind,  how  indifferent  are  all  of  us  to 
sorrows  that  lie  remote  from  us,  and  in  a  sphere  not  ours  ! 
In  vain  did  our  brave  old  father,  sinking  in  the  black  gulfs 
of  eternity,  seek  even  to  convince  us  that  he  was  sinking. 
Alone,  left  alone,  with  only  a  tremulous  and  fitful,  though 
eternal  star  of  hope,  he  had   to  front   that   adventure  for 


3oS  LORD   JEFFREY. 

l^iiii^clf with  an  awe-struck  imagination  of  it  such  as  few 

or  none  of  men  now  know.  More  vaUant  soul  I  have 
never  seen  :  nor  one  to  whom  death  was  more  unspeak- 
ablv  "  the  King  of  Terrors."  Death,  and  the  Judgment 
Bar  of  the  Ahiiighty  following  it,  may  well  be  terrible  to 
the  bravest.  Death  with  nothing  of  that  kind  following 
it,  one  readily  enough  finds  cases  where  that  is  insignifi- 
cant to  very  mean  and  silly  natures.  Within  three  months 
my  father  was  suddenly  gone.  I  might  have  noticed  some- 
thing of  what  the  old  Scotch  people  used  to  cdWfey  in  his 
last  parting  with  me  (though  I  did  not  then  so  read  it,  nor 
do  superstitiously  now,  but  only  tinderstand  it  and  the 
superstition)  :  it  is  visible  in  Frederick  Wilhelm's  Ultima- 
tum too.     But  nothing  of  all  that  belongs  to  this  place  ! 

My  Jeannie  had  brought  us  silhouettes  of  all  the  faces 
she  had  found  at  Scotsbrig  ;  one  of  them  (and  I  find  they 
are  all  still  at  Chelsea),  is  the  only  outward  shadow  of  my 
father's  face  now  left  me.'  Thanks  to  her  for  this  also, 
the  dear  and  ever  helpful  one  ! 

After  her  arrival,  and  our  settlement  in  the  Miles's 
lodgings  (Ampton  Street,  Gray's  Inn  Lane  ;  a  place  I  will 
go  to  see  if  I  return),  Jeffrey's  appearances  were  more  fre- 
quent and  satisfactory.  Very  often  in  the  afternoon  he 
came  to  call,  for  her  sake  mainly  I  believe,  though  mostly 
I  was  there  too  ;  I  perceive  now  his  little  visits  to  that  un- 
fashionable place  were  probably  the  golden  item  of  his 
bad  and  troublous  day ;  poor  official  man  begirt  with 
empty  botheration  !  I  heard  gradually  that  he  was  not 
reckoned  "successful "  in  public  life  ;  that  as  Lord  Advo- 
•  Engraved  and  prefixed  to  Vol.  I. — Editor. 


LORD   JEFFREY.  3^9 

cate,  the  Scotch  with  cheir  multifarious  business  found 
him  irritable,  impatient  (which  I  don't  wonder  at),  that 
his  "great  speech  "  with  "the  cheers  of  that  House," 
etc.  etc.  had  been  a  Parliamentary  failure,  rather  un- 
adapted  to  the  place,  and  what  was  itself  very  mortifying, 
that  the  reporters  had  complained  of  his  "  Scotch  accent  " 
to  excuse  themselves  for  various  omissions  they  had 
made  !  His  accent  was  indeed,  singular,  but  it  was  by  no 
means  Scotch  :  at  his  first  going  to  Oxford  (where  he  did 
not  stay  long),  he  had  peremptorily  crushed  down  his 
Scotch  (which  he  privately  had  in  store  in  excellent  con- 
dition to  the  very  end  of  his  life,  producible  v/ith  highly 
ludicrous  effect  on  occasion),  and  adopted,  instead,  a 
strange,  swift,  sharp-sounding,  fitful  modulation,  part  of 
it  pungent,  quasi-latrant,  other  parts  of  it  cooing,  bantery, 
lovingly  q^uizzjcal,  which  no  charms  of  his  fine  ringing 
voice  (metallic  tenor  of  sweet  tone),  and  of  his  vivacious 
rapid  looks,  and  pretty  little  attitudes  and  gestures,  could 
altogether  reconcile  you  to,  but  in  which  he  persisted 
through  good  report  and  bad.  Old  Braxey  (Macqueen, 
Lord  Braxfield),  a  sad  old  cynic,  on  whom  Jeffrey  used  to 
set  me  laughing  often  enough,  was  commonly  reported  to 
have  said,  on  hearing  Jeffrey  again  after  that  Oxford  so- 
journ, "  The  laddie  has  clean  tint  his  Scotch,  and  found 
nae  English  !  "  which  was  an  exaggerative  reading  of  the 
fact,  his  vowels  and  syllables  being  elaborately  English 
(or  English  and  more,  e.g.  "  heppy,"  "  my  Lud,"  etc.  etc.) 
while  the  tune  which  he  sang  them  to  was  all  his  own. 

There  was  not  much  of  interest  in  what  the  Lord  Ad- 
vocate brought  to  us  in  Ampton  Street ;  but  there  was 


3IO  LORD   JEFFREY. 

something  friendly  and  homelike  in  his  manners  there  ; 
and  a  kind  of  interest  and  sympathy  in  the  extra-official 
fact  of  his  seeking  temporary  shelter  in  that  obscure  re- 
treat. How  he  found  his  way  thither  I  know  not  (per- 
haps in  a  cab,  if  quite  lost  in  his  azimuth)  ;  but  I  have 
more  than  once  led  him  back  through  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  launched  him  safe  in  Long  Acre  with  nothing  but 
Leicester  Square  and  Piccadilly  ahead  ;  and  he  never 
once  could  find  his  way  home ;  wandered  about,  and 
would  discover  at  last  that  he  had  got  into  Lincoln's 
Inn  F'ields  agai?i.  He  used  to  tell  us  sometimes  of  min- 
isterial things,  not  often,  nor  ever  to  the  kindling  of  any 
admiration  in  either  of  us  ;  how  Lord  Althorp  would 
bluffly  say  etc.  etc.  (some  very  dull  piece  of  bluff  can- 
dour) ;  more  sparingly  what  the  aspects  and  likelihoods 
were,  in  which  my  too  Radical  humour  but  little  sympa- 
thised. He  was  often  unwell,  hidden  for  a  week  at  Wim- 
bledon Park  (Lord  Althorp's,  and  then  a  beautiful  se- 
cluded place),  for  quiet  and  rural  air.  We  seldom  called 
at  Jermyn  Street  ;  but  did  once  in  a  damp  clammy  even- 
ing, which  I  still  fondly  recollect  ;  ah  me  !  Another  ditto 
evening  I  recollect  being  there  myself.  We  were  sitting 
in  homely  ease  by  the  fire,  ourselves  four,  I  the  only  visi- 
tor, when  the  house-bell  rang,  and  something  that  sounded 
like  "  Mr.  P'ishcr  "  (Wishaw  it  should  have  been),  was  an- 
nounced as  waiting  downstairs  ;  the  emotion  about  whom 
on  Mrs.  Jeffrey's  part,  and  her  agitated  industry  in  sort- 
ing the  apartment  in  the  few  seconds  still  available  struck 
me  somewhat  all  the  more  when  "Mr.  Fisher"  himself 
waddled  in,  a  puffy,  thickset,  vulgar  little  dump  of  an  old 


LORD   JEFFREY.  311 

man,  whose  manners  and  talk,  (talk  was  of  cholera  then 
threatened  as  imminent  or  almost  come),  struck  me  as 
very  cool,  but  far  enough  from  admirable.  By  the  first 
good  chance  I  took  myself  away  ;  learned  by  and  by  that 
this  had  been  a  "  Mr.  Wishaw,"  whose  name  I  had  some- 
times heard  of  (in  connection  with  Mungo  Park's  Travels 
or  the  like)  ;  and  long  afterwards,  on  asking  old  Sterling 
who  or  what  this  Wishaw  specially  was,  "  He's  a  damned 
old  humbug  ;  dines  at  Holland  House,"  answered  Sterling 
readily.  Nothing  real  in  him  but  the  stomach  and  the  ef- 
frontery to  fill  it,  according  to  his  version  :  which  was  all 
the  history  I  ever  had  of  the  poor  man  ;  whom  I  never 
heard  of  more,  nor  saw,  except  that  one  time. 

We  were  at  first  rather  surprised  that  Jeffrey  did  not 
introduce  me  to  some  of  his  grand  literary  figures,  or  try 
in  some  way  to  be  of  help  to  one  for  whom  he  evidently 
had  a  value.  The  explanation  I  think  partly  was,  that  I 
myself  expressed  no  trace  of  aspiration  that  way  ;  that  his 
grand  literary  or  other  figures  were  clearly  by  no  means 
so  adorable  to  the  rustic  hopelessly  Germanized  soul  as 
an  introducer  of  one  might  have  wished  ;  and  chiefly  that 
in  fact  Jeffrey  did  not  consort  with  literary  or  other  grand 
people,  but  only  with  Wishaws  and  bores  in  this  bad 
time  ;  that  it  was  practically  the  very  worst  of  times  for 
him,  and  that  he  was  himself  so  heartily  miserable  as  to 
think  me  and  his  other  fellow-creatures  happy  in  compari- 
son, and  to  have  no  care  left  to  bestow  on  us.  I  never 
doubted  his  real  wish  to  help  me  should  an  opportunity 
c'ffer,  and  while  it  did  not,  we  had  no  want  of  him,  but 
plenty  of  society,   of  resources,   outlooks,  and  interests 


312  LORD   JEFFREY. 

Otherwise.  Truly  one  might  have  pitied  him  this  his  in- 
flux of  unexpected  dignities,  as  I  hope  I  in  silence  loyally 
sometimes  did.  So  beautiful  and  radiant  a  little  soul, 
plunged  on  the  sudden  into  such  a  mother  of  (gilt)  dead 
dogs  !  But  it  is  often  so  ;  and  many  an  envied  man  fares 
like  that  mythic  Irishman  who  had  resolved  on  treating 
himself  to  a  sedan  chair  ;  and  on  whom  the  mischievous 
chairmen  giving  one  another  the  wink,  left  the  bottom 
open  and  ran  away  with  him,  to  the  sorrow  of  his  poor 
shins.  "  And  that's  your  sedan  chairs!"  said  the  Irish 
gentleman,  paying  his  shilling  and  satisfied  to  finish  the 
experiment. 

In  March  or  the  end  of  February  I  set  to  writing 
"  Johnson  ;  "  and  having  found  a  steady  table  (what  fet- 
tling in  that  poor  room,  and  how  kind  and  beautiful  she 
was  to  me !)  I  wrote  it  by  her  side  for  most  part,  pushing 
my  way  through  the  mud  elements,  with  a  certain  glow 
of  victory  now  and  then.  This  finished,  this  and  other 
objects  and  arrangements  (Jeffrey  much  in  abeyance  to 
judge  by  my  memory  now  so  blank),  we  made  our 
adieus  (Irving,  Badams,  Mill,  Leigh  Hunt,  who  was  anew 
acquaintance,  but  an  interesting),  and  by  Birmingham, 
Liverpool,  Scotsbrig,  with  incidents  all  fresh  in  mind  to 
me  just  now,  arrived  safely  home  well  pleased  with  our 
London  sojourn,  and  feeling  our  poor  life  to  a  certain  de- 
gree made  richer  by  it.  Ah  me  !  "  so  strange,  so  sad, 
the  days  that  are  no  more  !  " 

Jeffrey's  correspondence  continued  brisk  as  ever,  but 
it  was  now  chiefly  to  her  address  ;  and  I  regarded  it  little, 
feeling,  as  she  too  did,  that  it  greatly  wanted  practicality, 


LORD   JEFFREY.  313 

and  amounted  mainly  to  a  flourish  of  fine  words,  and  the 
pleasant  expenditure  now  and  then  of  an  idle  hour  in  in- 
tervals of  worry.     My  time,  with  little  "  Goethe  "  papers 
and  excerptings   (Das   Miihrchen  etc.  etc.),   printing  of 
"Sartor"  piecemeal    in   "  Fraser,"   and    London    corre- 
spondings,  went  more  prosperously  than  heretofore.     Had" 
there  been  good  servants  procurable,  as  there  were  not, 
one   miijht  almost  have  called   it  a  happy  time,  this  at 
Craigenputtoch,  and  it  might  have  lasted  longer ;  but  per- 
manent we  both  silently  felt  it  could  not  be,  nor  even  very 
lastincf  as  matters  stood.     I  think  it  must  have  been  the 
latter  part  of  next  year,  1833,  when  Jeffrey's  correspond- 
ence with  me  sputtered  out  into  something  of  sudden  life 
again  ;  and  something  so  unlucky  that  it  proved  to  be  es- 
sentially death  instead  !     The  case   was  this  :   we  heard 
copiously  in  the  newspapers  that  the  Edinburgh  people  in 
a  meritorious  scientific  spirit  were  about  remodelling  their 
old  Astronomical  Observatory  ;  and  at  length  that  they 
had  brought  it  to  the  proper  pitch  of  real  equipment,  and 
that  nothing  now  was  wanting  but  a  fit  observer  to  make 
it  scientifically  useful   and   notable.     I   had   hardly   even 
looked  through  a  telescope,  but  I  had  good  strength  in 
mathematics,  in  astronomy,  and  did  not  doubt  but  I  could 
soon  be  at  home  in  such  an  enterprise   if  I  fairly  entered 
on   it.      My  old  enthusiasms,  I  felt  too,  were  not  dead, 
though  so  long  asleep.     We  were  eagerly  desirous  of  some 
humblest  anchorage,  in  the  finance  way,  among  our  fellow- 
creatures  ;  my  heart's  desire,  for  many  years  past  and 
coming,  was   always  to  find  any  honest   employment  by 
which  one  might  regularly  gain  one's  daily  bread  !    Often 


314  LORD   JEFFREY. 

long  after  this  (while  hopelessly  writing  the  "  French  Rev- 
olution," for  example,  hopelessly  of  money  or  any  other 
success  from  it),  I  thought  my  case  so  tragically  hard  : 
*'  could  learn  to  do  honestly  so  many  things,  nearly  all  the 
things  I  have  ever  seen  done,  from  the  making  of  shoes 
up  to  the  engineering  of  canals,  architecture  of  mansions 
as  palatial  as  you  liked,  and  perhaps  to  still  higher  things 
of  the  physical  or  spiritual  kind  ;  would  moreover  toil  so 
loyally  to  do  my  task  right,  not  wrong,  and  am  forbidden  ■ 
to  try  any  of  them  ;  see  the  practical  world  closed  against 
me  as  with  brazen  doors,  and  must  stand  here  and  perish 
idle  !  " 

In  a  word  I  had  got  into  considerable  spirits  about 
that  astronomical  employment,  fancied  myself  in  the  silent 
midnight  interrogating  the  eternal  stars  etc.  with  some- 
thing of  real  geniality — in  addition  to  financial  considera- 
tions ;  and,  after  a  few  days,  in  the  light  friendly  tone, 
with  modesty  and  brevity,  applying  to  my  Lord  Advocate 
for  his  countenance  as  the  first  or  preliminary  step  of  pro- 
cedure, or  perhaps  it  was  virtually  in  his  own  appointment 
— or  perhaps  again  (for  I  quite  forget),  I  wrote  rather  as 
enquiring  what  he  would  think  of  me  in  reference  to  it  ? 
The  poor  bit  of  letter  still  seems  to  me  unexceptionable,  and 
the  answer  was  prompt  and  surprising  !  Almost,  or  quite 
by  return  of  post,  I  got  not  a  flat  refusal  only,  but  an 
angry  vehement,  almost  shrill-sounding  and  scolding  one, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  crime  and  an  insolence  in  the  like  of  me 
to  think  of  such  a  thing.  Thing  was  intended,  as  I  soOn 
found,  for  his  old  Jcrmyn  Street  secretary  (my  taciturn 
friend  with  the  blear  eyes)  ;  and  it  was  indeed  a  plain  in- 


LORD  JEFFREY.  31  5 

convenience  that  the  hke  of  me  should  apply  for  it,  but 
not  a  crime  or  an  insolence  by  any  means.  "  The  like  of 
me  ?  "  thought  I,  and  my  provocation  quickly  subsided 
into  contempt.  For  I  had  in  Edinburgh  a  kind  of  mathe- 
matical reputation  withal,  and  could  have  expected  votes 
far  stronger  than  Jeffrey's  on  that  subject.  But  I  perceived 
the  thing  to  be  settled,  believed  withal  that  the  poor  sec- 
retary, though  blear-eyed  when  I  last  saw  him,  would  do 
well  enough,  as  in  effect  I  understood  he  did  ;  that  his 
.master  might  have  reasons  of  his  own  for  wishing  a  pro- 
visionary  settlement  to  the  poor  man  ;  and  that  in  short  I 
was  an  outsider  and  had  nothing  to  say  to  all  that.  By 
the  first  post  I  accordingly  answered,  in  the  old  light  style, 
thanking  briefly  for  at  least  the  swift  despatch,  affirming 
the  maxim  bis  dat  qui  cito  dat  even  in  case  of  refusal,  and 
good-humouredly  enough  leaving  the  matter  to  rest  on  its 
own  basis.  Jeffrey  returned  to  it,  evidently  somewhat  in 
repentant  mood  (his  tone  had  really  been  splenetic  sput- 
tery  and  improper,  poor  worried  man)  ;  but  I  took  no  no- 
tice, and  only  marked  for  my  own  private  behoof,  what 
exiguous  resource  of  practical  help  for  me  lay  in  that 
quarter,  and  how  the  economical  and  useful,  there  as  else- 
where, would  always  override  the  sentimental  and  orna- 
mental. 

I  had  internally  no  kind  of  anger  against  my  would-be 
generous  friend.  ,  Had  not  he  after  all  a  kind  of  gratuitous 
regard  for  me  ;  perhaps  as  much  as  I  for  him  ?  Nor  was 
there  a  diminution  of  respect,  perhaps  only  a  clearer  view 
how  little  respect  there  had  been  !  My  own  poor  task 
was  abundantly  serious,  my  posture  in  it  solitary ;  and  I 


3l6  LORD   JEFFREY. 

felt  that  silence  would  be  fittest.  Then  and  subsequently 
I  exchanged  one  or  two  little  notes  of  business  with  Jef- 
frey, but  this  of  late  autumn  1833  was  the  last  of  our  sen- 
timental passages  ;  and  may  be  said  to  have  closed  what 
of  correspondence  we  had  in  the  friendly  or  effusive  strain. 
For  several  years  more  he  continued  corresponding  with 
my  wife  ;  and  had  I  think  to  the  end  a  kind  of  lurking 
regard  to  us  willing  to  show  itself;  but  our  own  struggle 
with  the  world  was  now  become  stern  and  grim,  not  fitly 
to  be  interrupted  by  these  theoretic  flourishes  of  epistolary 
trumpeting  :  and  (towards  the  finale  of  "  French  Revolu- 
tion," if  I  recollect),  my  dearest  also  gave  him  up,  and 
nearly  altogether  ceased  corresponding. 

What  a  finger  of  Providence  once  more  was  this  of  the 
Edinburgh  Observatory ;  to  which,  had  Jeffrey  assented, 
I  should  certainly  have  gone  rejoicing.  These  things 
really  strike  one's  heart.  The  good  Lord  Advocate,  who 
really  was  pitiable  and  miserably  ill  off  in  his  eminent 
position,  showed  visible  embarrassment  at  sight  of  me  (in 
1834),  come  to  settle  in  London  without  furtherance  asked 
or  given ;  and,  indeed,  on  other  occasions,  seemed  to 
recollect  the  Astronomical  catastrophe  in  a  way  which 
touched  me,  and  was  of  generous  origin  or  indication. 
He  was  quitting  his  Lord  Advocateship,  and  returning 
home  to  old  courses  and  habits,  a  solidly  wise  resolu- 
tion, lie  always  assiduously  called  on  us  in  his  subse- 
quent visits  to  London  ;  and  we  had  our  kind  thoucrhts. 
our  pleasant  reminiscences  and  loyal  pities  of  the  once 
brilliant  man  and  friend  ;  but  he  was  now  practically  be- 
come little  or  nothing  to  us,  and  had  withdrawn  as  it  were 


LORD   JEFFREY.  317 

to  the  sphere  of  the  past.  I  have  chanced  to  meet  him 
in  a  London  party  ;  found  him  curiously  exotic.  I  used 
punctually  to  call  if  passing  through  Edinburgh ;  some 
recollection  I  have  of  an  evening,  perhaps  a  night,  at 
Craigcrook,  pleasantly  hospitable,  with  Empson  (son-in- 
law)  there,  and  talk  about  Dickens,  etc.  Jeffrey  was  now 
a  judge,  and  giving  great  satisfaction  in  that  office  ;  "  sel- 
dom a  better  judge,"  said  everybody.  His  health  was 
weak  and  age  advancing,  but  he  had  escaped  his  old 
London  miseries,  like  a  sailor  from  shipwreck,  and  might 
now  be  accounted  a  lucky  man  again.  The  last  time  I 
saw  him  was  on  my  return  from  Glen  Truin  in  Inverness- 
shire  or  Perthshire,  and  my  Ashburton  visit  there  (in  1849 
or  50).  He  was  then  at  least  for  the  time  withdrawn  from 
judging,  and  was  reported  very  weak  in  health.  His 
wife  and  he  sauntering  for  a  little  exercise  on  the  shore  at 
Newhaven,  had  stumbled  over  some  cable  and  both  of 
them  fallen  and  hurt  themselves,  his  wife  so  ill  that  I  did 
not  see  her  at  all.  Jeffrey  I  did  see  after  some  delay,  and 
we  talked  and  strolled  slowly  some  hours  together ;  but 
there  was  no  longer  stay  possible,  such  the  evident  dis- 
tress and  embarrassment  Craigcrook  v/as  in.  I  had  got 
breakfast  on  very  kind  terms  from  Mrs.  Empson,  with 
husband,  and  three  or  four  children  (of  strange  Edinburgh 
type).  Jeffrey  himself  on  coming  down  was  very  kind  to 
me,  but  sadly  weak  ;  much  worn  away  in  body,  and  in 
mind  more  thin  and  sensitive  than  ever.  He  talked  a 
good  deal,  distantly  alluding  once  to  our  changed  courses, 
in  a  friendly  (not  a  very  dexterous  way),  was  throughout 
friendly,  good,  but  tremulous,  thin,  almost  affecting,  in 


3l8  LORD   JEFFREY. 

contrast  with  old  times  ;  grown  Lunar  now,  not  Solar  any 
more  !  He  took  me,  baggage  and  all,  in  his  carriage  to 
the  railway  station,  Mrs.  Empson  escorting,  and  there 
said  farewell,  for  the  last  time  as  it  proved.  Going  to  the 
Grange  some  three  or  four  months  after  this,  I  accident- 
ally heard  from  some  newspaper  or  miscellaneous  fellow- 
passenger,  as  the  news  of  the  morning,  that  Lord  Jefifrey 
in  Edinburgh  was  dead.  Dull  and  heavy,  somewhere  in 
the  Basingstoke  localities,  the  tidings  fell  on  me,  awaken- 
ing frozen  memories  not  a  few.  He  had  died  I  afterwards 
heard  with  great  constancy  and  firmness  ;  lifted  his  finger 
as  if  in  cheerful  encouragement  amid  the  lamenting  loved 
ones,  and  silently  passed  away.  After  that  autumn  morn- 
ing at  Craigcrook  I  have  never  seen  one  of  those  friendly 
souls,  not  even  the  place  itself  again.  A  few  months 
afterwards  Mrs.  Jeffrey  followed  her  husband  ;  in  a  year 
or  two  at  Haileybury  (some  East  India  College  where  he 
had  an  office  or  presidency),  Empson  died,  "  correcting 
proof  sheets  of  the  '  Edinburgh  Review,'  "  as  appears, 
"  while  waiting  daily  for  death  ;  "  a  most  quiet  editorial 
procedure  which  I  have  often  thought  of!  Craigcrook 
was  sold ;  Mrs.  Empson  with  her  children  vanished 
mournfully  into  the  dumb  distance  ;  and  all  was  over 
there,  and  a  life  scene  once  so  bright  for  us  and  others 
had  ended,  and  was  gone  like  a  dream. 

Jeffrey  was  perhaps  at  the  height  of  his  reputation 
about  1816;  his  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  a  kind  of  Delphic 
oracle  and  voice  of  the  inspired  for  great  majorities  of 
what  is  called  the  "intelligent  public,"  and  himself  re- 
garded universally  as  a  man  of  consummate  penetration 


LORD   JEFFREY.  319 

and  the  facile princeps  in  the  department  he  had  chosen 
to  cultivate  and  practise.  In  the  half-century  that  has 
followed,  what  a  change  in  all  this  !  the  fine  gold  become 
dim  to  such  a  degree,  and  the  Trismegistus  hardly  now 
regarded  as  a  Megas  by  anyone,  or  by  the  generality  re- 
membered at  all.  He  may  be  said  to  have  begun  the 
rash  reckless  style  of  criticising  everything  in  heaven  and 
earth  by  appeal  to  Molicrcs  maid ;  "  Do  you  like  it?" 
"  Don't  you  like  it  ?  "  a  style  which  in  hands  more  and 
more  inferior  to  that  sound-hearted  old  lady  and  him,  has 
since  grown  gradually  to  such  immeasurable  length  among 
us  ;  and  he  himself  is  one  of  the  first  that  suffers  by  it. 
If  praise  and  blame  are  to  be  perfected,  not  in  the  mouth 
of  Moliere's  maid  only  but  in  that  of  mischievous  pre- 
cocious babes  and  sucklings,  you  will  arrive  at  singular 
judgments  by  degrees  !  Jeffrey  was  by  no  means  the  su- 
preme in  criticism  or  in  anything  else  ;  but  it  is  certain 
there  has  no  critic  appeared  among  us  since  who  was 
worth  naming  beside  him  ;  and  his  influence  for  good  and 
for  evil  in  literature  and  otherwise  has  been  very  great. 
Democracy,  the  gradual  uprise  and  rule  in  all  things  of 
roaring  million-headed  unreflecting,  darkly  suffering  dark- 
ly sinning  "  Demos,"  come  to  call  its  old  superiors  to 
account  at  its  maddest  of  tribunals  ;  nothing  in  my  time 
has  so  forwarded  all  this  as  Jeffrey  and  his  once  famous 
**  Edinburgh  Review." 

He  was  not  deep  enough,  pious  or  reverent  enough, 
to  have  been  great  in  literature  ;  but  he  was  a  man  intrin- 
sically of  veracity  ;  said  nothing  without  meaning  it  to 
some  considerable  degree,  had  the  quickest  perceptions, 


320  LORD  JEFFREY. 

excellent  practical  discernment  of  what  lay  before  him  ; 
was  in  earnest  too,  though  not  "  dreadfully  in  earnest ;  "  in 
short  was  well  fitted  to  set  forth  that  "  Edinburgh  Review " 
(at  the  dull  opening  of  our  now  so  tumultuous  century), 
and  become  coryph^us  of  his  generation  in  the  waste, 
wide-spreading  and  incalculable  course  appointed  //  among 
the  centuries  !  I  used  to  find  in  him  a  finer  talent  than  any 
he  has  evidenced  in  writing.  This  was  chiefly  when  he 
got  to  speak  Scotch,  and  gave  me  anecdotes  of  old  Scotch 
Braxfields  and  vernacular  (often  enough  but  not  always 
cynical)  curiosities  of  that  type  ;  which  he  did  with  a 
greatness  of  gusto  quite  peculiar  to  the  topic,  with  a  fine 
and  deep  sense  of  humour,  of  real  comic  mirth,  much  be- 
yond what  was  noticeable  in  him  otherwise  ;  not  to  speak 
of  the  perfection  of  the  mimicry,  which  itself  was  some- 
thing. I  used  to  think  to  myself,  "  Here  is  a  man  whom 
they  have  kneaded  into  the  shape  of  an  Edinburgh  re- 
viewer, and  clothed  the  soul  of  in  Whig  formulas  and  blue 
and  yellow  ;  but  he  might  have  been  a  beautiful  Goldoni 
too,  or  some  thing  better  in  that  kind,  and  have  given  us 
comedies  and  aerial  pictures  true  and  poetic  of  human  life 
in  a  far  other  way  !  "  There  was  something  of  Voltaire  in 
him,  something  even  in  bodily  features  ;  those  bright- 
beaming,  swift  and  piercing  hazel  eyes,  with  their  accom- 
paniment of  rapid  keen  expression  in  the  other  lineaments 
of  face,  resembled  one's  notion  of  Voltaire  ;  and  in  the 
voice  too  there  was  a  fine  half-plangent  kind  of  metallic 
ringing  tone  which  used  to  remind  me  of  what  I  fancied 
Voltaire's  voice  might  have  been  :  "  voix  sombre  et  ma- 
jestucuse,"  Duvernet  calls  it.     The  culture  and  respective 


LORD   JEFFREY.  321 

natal  scenery  of  the  two  men  had  been  very  different ; 
nor  was  their  magnitude  of  faculty  anything  like  the  same, 
had  their  respective  kinds  of  it  been  much  more  identical 
than  they  were.  You  could  not  define  Jeffrey  to  have 
been  more  than  a  potential  Voltaire  ;  say  "  Scotch  Vol- 
taire "  ;  with  about  as  much  reason  (which  was  not  very 
much)  as  they  used  in  Edinburgh  to  call  old  Playfair  the 
"  Scotch  D'Alembert."  Our  Voltaire  too,  whatever  else 
might  be  said  of  him,  was  at  least  worth  a  large  multiple 
of  our  D'Alembert !  A  beautiful  httle  man  the  former  of 
these,  and  a  bright  island  to  me  and  to  mine  in  the  sea 
of  things,  of  whom  it  is  now  again  mournful  and  painful 
to  take  farewell. 

[Finished  at  Mentone,  this  Saturday  January  19,  1867  ; 
day  bright  as  June  (while  all  from  London  to  Avignon 
seems  to  be  choked  under  snow  and  frost) ;  other  con- 
ditions, especially  the  internal,  not  good,  but  baddish  or 
bad.] 

21 


*:lf 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE. 

"In  the  ancient  county  town  of  Haddington,  July  14,  1801, 
there  was  born  to  a  lately  wedded  pair,  not  natives  of  the 
place  but  already  reckoned  among  the  best  class  of  people 
there,  a  little  daughter  whom  they  named  Jane  Baillie 
Welsh,  and  whose  subsequent  and  final  name  (her  own 
common  signature  for  many  years),  was  Jane  Welsh  Car- 
lyle,  and  now  so  stands,  now  that  she  is  mine  in  death 
only,  on  her  and  her  father's  tombstone  in  the  Abbey 
Kirk  of  that  town.  July  14,  1801  ;  I  was  then  in  my 
sixth  year,  far  away  in  every  sense,  now  near  and  infi- 
nitely concerned,  trying  doubtfully  after  some  three  years' 
sad  cunctation,  if  there  is  anything  that  I  can  profitably 
put  on  record  of  her  altogether  bright  beneficent  and 
modest  little  life,  and  her,  as  my  final  task  in  this  world." 
These  are  the  words  in  which  Mr.  Carlyle  commenced 
an  intended  sketch  of  his  wife's  history,  three  years  after 
she  had  been  taken  from  him  ;  but  finding  the  effort  too 
distressing,  he  passed  over  her  own  letters,  with  notes  and 
recollections  which  he  had  written  down  immediately 
after  her  death,  directing  me  as  I  have  already  stated ' 
either  to  destroy  them,  or  arrange  and  publish  them,  as  I 
might  think  good.     I  told  him  afterwards  that  before  I 

'  See  Preface. 


3^6  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

could  write  any  biography  either  of  Mrs.  Carlyle  or  him- 
self, I  thought  that  these  notes  ought  to  be  printed  in  the 
shape  in  which  he  had  left  them,  being  adjusted  merely 
into  some  kind  of  order.  He  still  left  me  to  my  own  dis- 
cretion ;  on  myself  therefore  the  responsibility  rests  en- 
tirely for  their  publication.  The  latter  part  of  the  narra- 
tive flows  on  consecutively ;  the  beginning  is  irregular 
from  the  conditions  under  which  Mr.  Carlyle  was  writing. 
He  had  requested  Miss  Geraldine  Jevvsbury,  who  had 
been  his  wife's  most  intimate  friend,  to  tell  him  any  bio- 
graphical anecdotes  which  she  could  remember  to  have 
heard  from  Mrs.  Carlyle's  lips.  On  these  anecdotes, 
when  Miss  Jewsbury  gave  him  as  much  as  she  was  able 
to  give,  Mr.  Carlyle  made  his  own  observations,  but  he 
left  them  undigested  ;  still  for  the  most  part  remaining  in 
Miss  Jewsbury's  words  ;  and  in  the  same  words  I  think  it 
best  that  they  shall  appear  here,  as  material  which  may  be 
used  hereafter  in  some  record  more  completely  organised, 
but  for  the  present  serving  to  make  intelligible  what  Mr. 
Carlyle  has  to  say  about  them. 


IN  MEMORIAM  JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.' 

Od.  April  21,  1S66. 

She  told  me  that  once,  when  she  was  a  very  little  girl,  there  was 
going  to  be  a  dinner-party  at  home,  and  she  was  left  alone  with  some 
tempting  custards,  ranged  in  their  glasses  upon  a  stand.  She  stood 
looking  at  them,  and  the  thought  "  What  would  be  the  consequence 
if  I  should  eat  one  of  them  ?  "  came  into  her  mind.     A  whimsical 

'  Described  by  Mr.  Carlyle  as  Geraldine's  Mythic  Jottings. 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  32/ 

sense  of  the  dismay  it  would  cause  took  hold  of  her  ;  she  thought  of 
it  again,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  about,  she  put  forth 
her. hand,  and — took  a  little  from  the  top  of  each!  She  was  dis- 
covered ;  the  sentence  upon  her  was,  to  eat  all  the  remaining  cus- 
tards, and  to  hear  the  company  told  the  reason  why  there  were 
none  for  them  !  The  poor  child  hated  custards  for  a  long  time 
afterwards. 

THE  BUBBLY  JOCK. 

On  her  road  to  school,  when  a  very  small  child,  she  had  to  pass 
a  gate  where  a  horrid  turkey-cock  was  generally  standing.  He  al- 
ways ran  up  to  her,  gobbling  and  looking  very  hideous  and  alarm- 
ing. It  frightened  her  at  first  a  good  deal ;  and  she  dreaded  having 
to  pass  the  place  ;  but  after  a  little  time  she  hated  the  thought  of 
living  in  fear.  The  next  time  she  passed  the  gate  several  labourers 
and  boys  were  near,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  the  thought  of  the  turkey 
running  at  her.  She  gathered  herself  together  and  made  up  her 
mind.  The  turkey  ran  at  her  as  usual,  gobbling  and  swelling;  she 
suddenly  darted  at  him  and  seized  him  by  the  throat  and  swung  him 
round  !  The  men  clapped  their  hands,  and  shouted  "Well  done, 
little  Jeannie  Welsh !  "  and  the  Bubbly  Jock  never  molested  her 
again. 

LEARNING  LATIN. 

She  was  anxious  to  learn  lessons  like  a  boy ;  and,  when  a  very 
little  thing,  she  asked  her  father  to  let  her  "  learn  Latin  like  a  boy." 
Her  mother  did  not  wish  her  to  learn  so  much  ;  her  father  always 
tried  to  push  her  forwards ;  there  was  a  division  of  opinion  on  the 
subject.  Jeannie  went  to  one  of  the  town  scholars  in  Haddington 
and  made  him  teach  her  a  noun  of  the  first  declension  ("  Penna,  a 
pen,"  I  think  it  was).  Armed  with  this,  she  watched  her  opportu- 
nity ;  instead  of  going  to  bed,  she  crept  under  the  table,  and  was 
concealed  by  the  cover.  In  a  pause  of  conversation,  a  little  voice 
was  heard,  "Penna,  a  pen  ;  penna,  of  a  pen  ;  "  etc.,  and  as  there 
was  a  pause  of  surprise,  she  crept  out,  and  went  up   to  her  father 


328  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

saying,  *'  I  want  to  learn  Latin  ;  please  let  me  be  a  boy."     Of 
course  she  had  her  own  way  in  the  matter. 

SCHOOL  AT  HADDINGTON. 

Boys  and  girls  went  to  the  same  school ;  they  were  in  separate 
rooms,  except  for  Arithmetic  and  Algebra.  Jeannie  was  the  best  of 
the  girls  at  Algebra.  Of  course  she  had  many  devoted  slaves  among 
the  boys  ;  one  of  them  especially  taught  her,  and  helped  her  all  he 
knew ;  but  he  was  quite  a  poor  boy,  whilst  Jeannie  was  one  of  the 
gentry  of  the  place  ;  but  she  felt  no  difficulty,  and  they  were  great 
friends.  She  was  fond  of  doing  everything  difficult  that  boys  did. 
There  was  one  particularly  dangerous  feat,  to  which  the  boys  dared 
each  other ;  it^vas  to  walk  on  a  very  narrow  ledge  on  the  parapet  of 
the  bridge  overhanging  the  water  ;  the  ledge  went  in  an  arch,  and 
the  height  was  considerable.  One  fine  morning  Jeannie  got  up  early 
and  went  to  the  N ungate  Bridge  ;  she  lay  down  on  her  face  and 
crawled  from  one  end  of  the  bridge  to  the  other,  to  the  imminent 
risk  of  either  breaking  her  neck  or  drowning. 

One  day  in  the  boys'  school-room,  one  of  the  boys  said  some^ 
thing  to  displease  her.  She  lifted  her  hand,  doubled  it,  and  hit  him 
hard  ;  his  nose  began  to  bleed,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  scuffle  the 
maste*-  came  in.  He  saw  the  traces  of  the  fray,  and  said  in  an  angry 
voice,  "  You  know,  boys,  I  have  forbidden  you  to  fight  in  school, 
and  have  promised  that  I  would  flog  the  next.  Who  has  been  fight- 
ing this  time  ?  "  Nobody  spoke  ;  and  the  master  grew  angry,  and 
threatened  tawse  all  round  unless  the  culprit  were  given  up.  Of 
course  no  boy  would  toll  of  a  girl,  so  there  was  a  pause  ;  in  the 
midst  of  it,  Jeannie  looked  up  and  said,  "  Please,  I  gave  that  black 
eye."  The  master  tried  to  look  grave,  and  pursed  up  his  mouth ; 
but  the  boy  was  big,  and  Jeannie  was  little  ;  so,  instead  of  the  tawse 
he  burst  out  laughing  and  told  her  she  was  "  a  little  deevil,"  and  had 
no  business  there,  and  to  go  her  ways  back  to  the  girls. 

Her  friendship  with  her  schoolfellow-teacher  came  to  an  untimely 
end.     An  aunt  who  came  on  a  visit  saw  her  standing  by  a  stile  with 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  329 

him,  ind  a  book  between  them.  She  was  scolded,  and  desired  not 
to  keep  his  company.  This  made  her  very  sorry,  for  she  knew  how 
good  he  was  to  her  ;  but  she  never  had  a  notion  of  disobedience  in 
any  matter  small  or  great.  She  did  not  know  how  to  tell  him  or  to 
explain  ;  she  thought  it  shame  to  tell  him  he  was  not  thought  good 
enough,  so  she  determined  he  should  imagine  it  a  fit  of  caprice,  and 
from  that  day  she  never  spoke  to  him  or  took  the  least  notice  ;  she 
thought  a  sudden  cessation  would  pain  him  less  than  a  gradual  cold- 
ness. Years  and  years  afterwards,  going  back  on  a  visit  to  Had- 
dington, when  she  was  a  middle-aged  woman,  and  he  was  a  man 
married  and  domg  well  in  the  world,  she  saw  him  again,  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  told  him  the  explanation. 

She  was  always  anxious  to  work  hard,  and  would  sit  up  half  the 
night  over  her  lessons.  One  day  she  had  been  greatly  perplexed  by 
a  problem  in  Euclid  ;  she  could  not  solve  it.  At  last  she  went  to 
bed  ;  and  in  a  dream  got  up  and  did  it,  and  went  to  bed  again.  In 
the  morning  she  had  no  consciousness  of  her  dream  ;  but  on  looking 
at  her  slate,  there  was  the  problem  solved. 

She  was  afraid  of  sleeping  too  much,  and  used  to  tie  a  weight  to 
one  of  her  ankles  that  she  might  awake.  Her  mother  discovered  it ; 
and  her  father  forbade  her  to  rise  before  five  o'clock.  She  was  a 
most  healthy  little  thing  then  -,  only  she  did  her  best  to  ruin  her 
health,  not  knowing  what  she  ai^d.  She  always  would  push  every- 
thing to  its  extreme  to  find  out  if  possible  the  ultimate  consequence. 
One  day  her  mother  was  ill,  and  a  bag  of  ice  had  to  be  applied  to 
her  head.  Jeannie  wanted  to  know  the  sensation,  and  took  an  op- 
portunity when  no  one  saw  her  to  get  hold  of  the  bag,  and  put  it  on 
her  own  head,  and  kept  it  on  till  she  was  found  lying  on  the  ground 
insensible.  • 

She  made  great  progress  in  Latin,  and  was  in  Virgil  when  nine 
years  old.  She  always  loved  her  doll  ;  but  when  she  got  into  Virgil 
she  thought  it  shame  to  care  for  a  doll.  On  her  tenth  birthday  she 
built  a  funeral  pile  of  lead  pencils  and  sticks  of  cinnamon,  and 
poured  some  sort  of  perfume  over  all,  to  represent  a  funeral  pile. 


330  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

She  then  recited  the  speech  of  Dido,  stabbed  her  doll  and  let  oat  all 
the  sawdust ;  after  which  she  consumed  her  to  ashes,  and  then  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

HER  APPEARANCE  IN  GIRLHOOD. 

As  a  child  she  was  remarkable  for  her  large  black  eyes  with  their 
long  curved  lashes.  As  a  girl  she  was  extremely  pretty^ — a  graceful 
and  beautifully  formed  figure,  upright  and  supple, — a  delicate  com- 
plexion of  creamy  white  with  a  pale  rose  tint  in  the  cheeks,  lovely 
eyes  full  of  fire  and  softness,  and  with  great  depths  of  meaning.  Her 
head  was  finely  formed,  with  a  noble  arch,  and  a  broad  forehead. 
Her  other  features  were  not  regular  ;  but  they  did  not  prevent  her 
conveying  all  the  impression  of  being  beautiful.  Her  voice  was 
clear,  and  full  of  subtle  intonations  and  capable  of  great  variety  of 
expression.  She  had  it  under  full  control.  She  danced  with  much 
grace  ;  and  she  was  a  good  musician.  She  was  ingenious  in  all 
works  that  required  dexterity  of  hand  ;  she  could  draw  and  paint, 
and  she  was  a  good  carpenter.  She  could  do  anything  well  to  which 
she  chose  to  give  herself.  She  was  fond  of  logic, — too  much  so  ; 
and  she  had  a  keen  clear  incisive  faculty  of  seeing  through  things, 
and  hating  all  that  was  make-believe  or  pretentious.  She  had  good 
sense  that  amounted  to  genius.  S^e  loved  to  learn,  and  she  culti- 
vated all  her  faculties  to  the  utmost  of  her  power.  She  was  always 
witty,  with  a  gift  for  narration  ; — in  a  word  she  was  fascinating  and 
everybody  fell  in  love  with  her.  A  relative  of  hers  told  me  that 
every  man  who  spoke  to  her  for  five  minutes  felt  impelled  to  make 
her  an  offer  of  marriage  !  From  which  it  resulted  that  a  great  many 
men  were  made  unhappy.  She  seemed  -born  "  for  the  destruction 
of  mankind."  Another  person  told  me  that  she  was  "  the  most 
beautiful  starry-looking  creature  that  could  be  imagined,"  with  a 
peculiar  grace  of  manner  and  motion  that  was  more  charming  than 
beauty.  She  had  a  great  quantity  of  very  fine  silky  black  hair,  and 
she  always  had  a  natural  taste  for  dress.     The  first  thing  I  ever 


'o 


JANE    WELSH    CARLYLE.  33 1 

heard  about  her  was  that  she  dressed  well, — an  excellent  gift  for  a 
woman. 

Her  mother  was  a  beautiful  woman,  and  as  charming  as  her 
daughter,  though  not  so  clever.  She  had  the  gift  of  dressing  well 
also.  Genius  is  profitable  for  all  things,  and  it  saves  expense. 
Once  her  mother  was  going  to  some  grand  fete,  and  she  wanted  her 
dress  to  be  something  specially  beautiful.  She  did  not  want  to 
spend  money.  Jeannie  was  entrusted  with  a  secret  mission  to 
gather  ivy-leaves  and  trails  of  ivy  of  different  kinds  and  sizes,  also 
mosses  of  various  kinds,  and  was  enjoined  to  silence.  Mrs.  Welsh 
arranged  these  round  her  dress,  and  the  moss  formed  a  beautiful 
embossed  trimming  and  the  ivy  made  a  graceful  scrollwork  ;  the 
effect  was  lovely  ;  nobody  could  imagine  of  what  the  trimming  was 
composed,  but  it  was  generally  supposed  to  be  a  French  trimming  of 
the  latest  fashion  and  of  fabulous  expense. 

She  always  spoke  of  her  mother  with  deep  affection  and  great 
admiration.  She  said  she  was  so  noble  and  generous  that  no  one 
ever  came  near  her  without  being  the  better.  She  used  to  make 
beautiful  presents  by  saving  upon  herself, — she  economised  upon 
herself  to  be  generous  to  others  ;  and  no  one  ever  served  her  in  the 
least  without  experiencing  her  generosity.  She  was  almost  as 
charming  and  as  much  adored  as  her  daughter. 

Of  hex  father  she  always  spoke  with  reverence  ;  he  was  the  only 
person  who  had  any  real  influence  over  her.  But,  however  wilful  or 
indulged  she  might  be,  obedience  to  her  parents — unquestioning  and 
absolute — lay  at  the  foundation  of  her  life.  She  was  accustomed  to 
say  that  this  habit  of  obedience  to  her  parents  was  her  salvation 
through  life, — that  she  owed  all  that  was  of  value  in  her  character  to 
this  habit  as  the  foundation.  Her  father,  from  what  she  told  me, 
was  a  man  of  strong  and  noble  character, — very  true  and  hating  all 
that  was  false.  She  always  spoke  of  any  praise  he  gave  her  as  of  a 
precious  possession.  She  loved  him  with  a  deep  reverence  ;  and 
she  never  spoke  of  him  except  to  friends  whom  she  valued.  It  was 
the  highest  token  of  her  regard  when  she   told  anyone  about  her 


332  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

father.  She  told  me  that  once  he  was  summoned  to  go  a  sudden 
journey  to  see  a  patient ;  and  he  took  her  with  him.  It  was  the 
greatest  favour  and  pleasure  she  had  ever  had.  They  travelled  at 
night,  and  were  to  start  for  their  return  by  a  very  early  hour  in  the 
morning.  .  She  used  to  speak  of  this  journey  as  something  that  made 
her  perfectly  happy  ;  and  during  that  journey,  her  father  told  her  that 
her  conduct  and  character  satisfied  him.  It  was  not  often  he  praised 
her  ;  and  this  unreserved  flow  of  communication  was  very  precious 
to  her.  Whilst  he  went  to  the  sick  person,  she  was  sent  to  bed  un- 
til it  should  be  time  to  return.  She  had  his  watch  that  she  might 
know  the  time.  When  the  chaise  came  round,  the  landlady  brought 
her  some  tea ;  but  she  was  in  such  haste  not  to  keep  him  waiting 
that  she  forgot  the  watch  ;  and  they  had  to  return  several  miles  to 
fetch  it !  This  was  the  last  time  she  was  with  her  father  ;  a  few 
days  afterwards  he  fell  ill  of  typhus  fever,  and  would  not  allow  her 
to  come  into  the  room.  She  made  her  way  once  to  him,  and  he 
sent  her  away.  He  died  of  this  illness  ;  and  it  was  the  very  greatest 
sorrow  she  ever  experienced.  She  always  relapsed  into  a  deep 
silence  for  some  time  after  speaking  of  her  father.  {Not  very  cor- 
rect.    T.  C.J 

After  her  father's  death  they  ["they,"  no /^  left  Haddington,  and 
went  to  live  at  Templand,  near  Thornhill,  in  Dumfriesshire.  It  was 
a  country  house,  standing  in  its  own  grounds,  prettily  laid  out.  The 
house  has  been  described  to  me  as  furnished  with  a  certain  elegant 
thrift  which  gave  it  a  great  charm.  I  do  not  know  how  old  she  was 
when  her  father  died,'  but  she  was  one  with  whom  years  did  not  sig- 
nify, they  conveyed  no  meaning  as  to  what  she  was.  Before  she  was 
fourteen  she  wrote  a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  which  was  greatly  admired 
and  wondered  at ;  but  she  never  wrote  another.  She  used  to  speak 
of  it  "  as  just  an  explosion."  I  don't  know  what  the  title  was  ;  she 
never  told  me. 

She  had  many  ardent  lovers,  and  she  owned  that  some  of  them 

'  Eighteen,  just  gone. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  333 

had  reason  to  complain.  I  think  it  highly  probqj?le_that  '\i  flirting 
were  a  capital  crime,  she  would  have  been  in  danger  of  being  hanged 
many  times  over.  She  told  me  one  story  that  showed  a  good  deal  of 
character  : — There  was  a  young  man  who  was  very  much  in  love, 
and  I  am  afraid  he  had  had  reason  to  hope  she  cared  for  him  :  and 
she  only  liked  him.  She  refused  him  decidedly  when  he  proposed  ; 
but  he  tried  to  turn  her  from  her  decision,  which  showed  how  little 
he  understood  her  ;  for  her  w/// was  very  steadfast  through  life.  She 
refused  him  peremptorily  this  time.  He  then  fell  ill,  and  took  to  his 
bed,  and  his  mother  was  very  miserable  about  her  son.  She  was  a 
widow,  and  had  but  the  one.  At  last  he  wrote  her  another  letter,  in 
which  he  declared  that  unless  she  would  marry  him,  he  would  kill 
himself.  He  was  in  such  distraction  that  it  was  a  very  likely  thing 
for  him  to  do.  Her  mother  was  very  angry  indeed,  and  reproached 
her  bitterly.  She  was  very  sorry  for  the  mischief  she  had  done,  and 
took  to  her  bed,  and  made  herself  ill  with  crying.  The  old  servant, 
Betty,  kept  imploring  her  to  say  just  one  word  to  save  the  young 
man's  mother  from  her  misery.  But  though  she  felt  horribly  guilty, 
she  was  not  going  to  be  forced  or  frightened  into  anything.  She 
took  up  the  letter  once  more,  which  she  said  was  very  moving,  but  a 
slight  point  struck  her ;  and  she  put  down  the  letter,  saying  to  her 
mother,  "  You  need  not  be  frightened,  he  won't  kill  himself  at  all ; 
look  here,  he  has  scratched  out  one  word  to  substitute  another.  A 
man  intending  anything  desperate  would  not  have  stopped  to  scratch* 
out  a  word,  he  would  have  put  his  pen  through  it,  or  left  it !  "  That 
was  very  sagacious,  but  the  poor  young  man  was  very  ill,  and  the 
doctor  brought  a  bad  report  of  him  to  the  house.  She  suddenly 
said,  "  We  must  go  away,  go  away  for  some  time  ;  he  will  get  well 
when  we  are  gone."  It  was  as  she  had  said  it  would  be  ;  her  going 
away  set  his  mind  at  rest,  and  he  began  to  recover.  In  the  end  he 
married  somebody  else,  and  what  became  of  him  I  forget,  though  I 
think  she  told  me  more  about  him. 

There  was  another  man  whom  she  had  allowed  to  fall  in  love,  and 
never  tried  to  hinder  him,  though  she  refused  to  marry  him.     After 


334  JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE. 

many  years  she  saw  him  again.  He  was  then  an  elderly  man ;  had 
made  a  fortune,  and  stood  high  as  a  county  gentleman.  He  was 
happily  married,  and  the  father  of  a  family.  But  one  day  he  was 
driving  her  somewhere,  and  he  slackened  the  pace  to  a  walk  and 
said  :  "  I  once  thought  I  would  have  broken  my  heart  about  you,  but 
I  think  my  attachment  to  you  was  the  best  thing  that  ever  happened 
to  me  :  it  made  me  a  better  man.  It  is  a  part  of  my  life  that  stands 
out  by  itself  and  belongs  to  nothing  else.  I  have  heard  of  you  from 
time  to  time,  and  I  know  what  a  brilliant  lot  yours  has  been,  and  I 
have  felt  glad  that  you  were  in  your  rightful  place,  and  I  felt  glad 
that  I  had  suffered  for  your  sake,  and  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  if  I  had  known  I  would  not  have  tried  to  turn  you  into  any 
other  path."  This,  as  well  as  I  can  render  it,  is  the  sense  of  what 
he  said  gravely  and  gently,  and  I  admired  it  very  much  when  she 
told  me  :  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  was  much  better  as  she  told  it 
to  me.  Nobody  could  help  loving  her,  and  nobody  but  was  the  bet- 
ter for  doing  so.  She  had  the  gift  of  calling  forth  the  best  qualities 
that  were  in  people. 

I  don't  know  at  what  period  she  knew  Irving,  but  he  loved  her, 
and  wrote  letters  and  poetry  (very  true  and  touching)  :  but  there 
had  been  some  vague  understanding  with  another  person,  not  a 
definite  engagement,  and  she  insisted  that  he  must  keep  to  it  and 
•not  go  back  from  what  had  once  been  spoken.  There  had  been  just 
then  some  trial,  and  a  great  scandal  about  a  Scotch  minister  who 
had  broken  an  engagement  of  marriage  :  and  she  could  not  beat- 
that  the  shadow  of  any  similar  reproach  should  be  cast  on  him. 
Whether  if  she  had  cared  for  him  very  much  she  could  or  would 
have  insisted  on  such  punctilious  honour,  she  did  not  know  herself; 
but  anyhow  that  is  what  she  did.  After  Irving's  marriage,  years 
afterwards,  there  was  not  much  intercourse  between  them  \  the 
whole  course  of  his  life  had  changed. 

I  do  not  know  in  what  year  she  married,  nor  anything  connected 

I 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  335 

•with  her  marriage.  I  believe  that  she  brought  no  money  or  very 
little  at  her  marriage.  Her  father  had  left  everything  to  her,  but  she 
made  it  over  to  her  mother,  and  only  had  what  her  mother  gave  her. 
Of  course  people  thought  she  was  making  a  dreadfully  bad  match ; 
they  only  saw  the  outside  of  the  thing  ;  but  sne  had  faith  in  her  own 
insight.  Long  afterwards,  when  the  world  began  to  admire  her 
husband,  at  the  time  he  delivered  the  "  Lectures  on  Hero  Wor- 
ship," she  gave  a  little  half-scornful  laugh,  and  said  "  they  tell 
me  things  as  if  they  were  new  that  I  found  out  years  ago."  She 
knew  the  power  of  help  and  sympathy  that  lay  in  her ;  and  she  knew 
she  had  strength  to  stand  the  struggle  and  pause  before  he  was 
recognised.  She  told  me  that  she  resolved  that  he  should  never 
write  for  money,  only  when  he  wished  it,  when  he  had  a  message  in 
his  heart  to  deliver,  and  she  determined  that  she  would  make  what- 
ever money  he  gave  her  answer  for  all  needful  purposes  ;  and  she 
was  ever  faithful  to  this  resolve.  She  bent  her  faculties  to  econom- 
ical problems,  and  she  m.anaged  so  well  that  comfort  was  never 
absent  from  her  house,  and  no  one  looking  on  could  have  guessed 
whether  they  were  rich  or  poor.  Until  she  married,  she  had  never 
minded  household  things ;  but  she  took  them  up  when  necessary, 
and  accomplished  them  as  she  accomplished  everything  else  she 
undertook,  well  and  gracefully.  Whatever  she  had  to  do  she  did  it 
with  a  peculiar  personal  grace  that  gave  a  charm  to  the  most 
prosaic  details.  No  one  who  in  later  years  saw  her  lying  on  the 
sofa  in  broken  health,  and  languor,  would  guess  the  amount  of  ener- 
getic hard  work  she  had  done  in  her  life.  She  could  do  everything 
and  anything,  from  mending  the  Venetian  blinds  to  making  picture- 
frames  or  trimming  a  dress.  Her  judgment  in  all  literary  matters 
was  thoroughly  good  ;  she  could  get  to  the  very  core  of  a  thing,  and 
her  insight  was  like  witchcraft. 

Some  of  her  stories  about  her  servants  in  the  early  times  were 
very  amusing,  but  she  could  make  a  story  about  a  broom-handle 
and  make  it  entertaining.  Here  are  some  things  she  told  me  about 
their  residence  at  Craigenputtoch. 


336  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

At  first  on  their  marriage  they  lived  in  a  small  pretty  house  in 
Edinburgh  called  "  Comley  Bank."  Whilst  there  her  first  experi- 
ence of  the  difficulties  of  housekeeping  began.  She  had  never  been 
accustomed  to  anything  of  the  kind ;  but  Mr.  Carlyle  was  obliged 
to  be  very  careful  in  diet.  She  learned  to  make  bread,  partly  from 
recollecting  how  she  had  seen  an  old  servant  set  to  work ;  and 
she  used  to  say  that  the  first  time  she  attempted  brown  bread, 
il  was  with  awe.  She  mixed  the  dough  and  saw  it  rise  ;  and 
then  she  put  it  into  the  oven,  and  sat  down  to  watch  the  oven- 
door  with  feelings  like  Benvenuto  Cellini's  when  he  watched 
his  Perseus  put  into  the  furnace.  She  did  not  feel  too  sure 
what  it  would  come  out !  But  it  came  out  a  beautiful  crusty  loaf, 
very  light  and  sweet ;  and  proud  of  it  she  was.  The  first  time  she 
tried  a  pudding,  she  went  into  the  kitchen  and  locked  the  door  on 
herself,  having  got  the  servant  out  of  the  road.  It  was  to  be  a  suet 
pudding — not  just  a  common  suet  pudding,  but  something  special — 
and  it  was  good,  being  made  with  care  by  weight  and  measure  with 
exactness.  Whilst  they  were  in  Edinburgh  they  knew  everybody 
worth  knowing ;  Lord  Jeffrey  was  a  great  admirer  of  hers,  and  an 
old  friend  ;  Chalmers,  Guthrie,  and  many  others.  But  Mr.  Car- 
lyle's  health  and  work  needed  perfect  quietness  and  absolute  soli- 
tude. They  went  to  live  at  the  end  of  two  years  at  Craigenputtoch 
— a  lonely  farmhouse  belonging  to  Mrs.  Welsh,  her  mother.  A 
house  was  attached  to  the  farm,  beside  the  regular  farmhouse.  The 
farm  was  let  ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  lived  in  the  house,  which 
was  separated  from  the  farm -yard  and  buildings  by  a  yard.  A 
garden  and  out-buildings  were  attached  to  it.  They  had  a  cow, 
and  a  horse,  and  poultry.  They  were  fourteen  miles  from  Dum- 
fries, which  was  the  nearest  town.  The  country  was  uninhabited 
for  miles  round,  being  all  moorland,  with  rocks,  and  a  high  steep 
green  hill  behind  the  house.  She  used  to  say  that  the  stillness  was 
almost  awful,  and  that  when  she  walked  out  she  could  hear  the 
sheep  nibbling  the  grass,  and  they  used  to  look  at  her  with  innocent 
wonder.      The  letters  came  in  once  a  week,  which  was  as  often  as 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  337 

they  sent  into  Dumfries.  All  she  needed  had  to  be  sent  for  there  or 
done  without.  One  dav  she  had  desired  the  farm-servant  to  brin? 
her  a  bottle  of  yeast.  The  weather  was  very  hot.  The  man  came 
back  looking  scared  ;  and  without  the  yeast.  He  said  doggedly 
that  he  would  do  anything  lawful  for  her  ;  but  he  begged  she  would 
never  ask  him  to  fetch  such  an  uncanny  thing  again,  for  it  had  just 
worked  and  worked  till  it  flew  away  with  the  bottle  !  When  asked 
where  it  was,  he  replied  "  it  had  a'  gane  into  the  ditch,  and  he  had 
left  it  there  !  " 

Lord  Jeffrey  and  his  family  came  out  twice  to  visit  her ;  expect- 
ing, as  he  said,  to  find  that  she  had  hanged  herself  upon  a  door-nail. 
But  she  did  no  such  thing.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  great  strain  upon 
her  nerves  from  which  she  never  entirely  recovered  ;  but  she  lived 
in  the  solitude  cheerfully  and  willingly  for  six  years.  It  was  a  much 
greater  trial  than  it  sounds  at  first ;  for  Mr.  Carlyle  was  engrossed 
in  his  work,  and  had  to  give  himself  up  to  it  entirely.  It  was  work 
and  thought  with  which  he  had  to  wrestle  with  all  his  might  to  bring 
out  the  truths  he  felt,  and  to  give  them  due  utterance.  It  was  his 
life  that  his  work  required,  and  it  was  his  life  that  he  gave,  and  she 
gave  her  life  too,  which  alone  made  such  life  possible  for  him.  All 
those  who  have  been  strengthened  by  Mr.  Carlyle's  written  words — 
and  they  have  been  wells  of  life  to  more  than  have  been  numbered 
— owe  to  her  a  debt  of  gratitude  no  less  than  to  him.  If  she  had  not 
devoted  her  life  to  him,  he  could  not  have  worked  ;  and  if  she  had 
let  the  care  for  money  weigh  on  him  he  could  not  have  given  his  best 
strength  to  teach.  Hers  was  no  holiday  task  of  pleasant  companion- 
ship ;  she  had  to  live  beside  him  in  silence  that  the  people  in  the 
world  might  profit  by  his  full  strength  and  receive  his  message.  She 
lived  to  see  his  work  completed,  and  to  see  him  recognized  in  full  for 
what  he  is,  and  for  what  he  has  done. 

Sometimes  she   could  not  send  to  Dumfries  for  butcher's  meat ; 

and    then    she  was   reduced   to   her   poultry.     She   had   a  peculiar 

breed  of  very  long-legged  hens,  and  she  used  to  go  into  the  yard 

amongst  them  with  a  long  stick  and  point  out  those  that  were  to 

22 


338  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

be  killed,  feeling,  she  said,  like  Fouquier  Tinville  pricking  down  his 
victims. 

One  hard  winter  her  servant,  Grace,  asked  leave  to  go  home  to 
see  her  parents  ;  there  was  some  sort  of  a  fair  held  in  her  village. 
She  went  and  was  to  return  at  night.  The  weather  was  bad,  and  she 
did  not  return.  The  next  morning  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  for 
her  to  get  up  to  light  the  fires  and  prepare  breakfast.  The  house 
had  beautiful  and  rather  elaborate  steel  grates  ;  it  seemed  a  pity  to 
let  them  rust,  so  she  cleaned  them  carefully,  and  then  looked  round 
for  wood  to  kindle  the  fire.  There  was  none  in  the  house  ;  it  all  lay 
in  a  little  outhouse  across  the  yard.  On  trying  to  open  the  door,  she 
found  it  was  frozen  beyond  her  power  to  open  it,  so  Mr.  Carlyle  had 
to  be  roused;  it  took  all  his  strength,  and  when  opened  a  drift  of 
snow  six  feet  high  fell  into  the  hall !  Mr.  Carlyle  had  to  make  a  path 
to  the  wood-house,  and  bring  over  a  supply  of  wood  and  coal ;  after 
which  he  left  her  to  her  own  resources. 

The  fire  at  length  made,  the  breakfast  had  to  be  prepared  ;  but 
it  had  to  be  raised  from  the  foundation.  The  bread  had  to  be  made, 
the  butter  to  be  churned,  and  the  coffee  ground.  All  was  at  last  ac- 
complished, and  the  breakfast  was  successful !  After  breakfast  she 
went  about  the  work  of  the  house,  as  there  was  no  chance  of  the  ser- 
vant being  able  to  return.  The  work  fell  into  its  natural  routine. 
Mr  Carlyle  always  kept  a  supply  of  wood  ready  ;  he  cut  it,  and  piled 
it  ready  for  her  use  inside  the  house  ;  and  he  fetched  the  water,  and 
did  things  she  had  not  the  strength  to  do.  The  poor  cow  was  her 
greatest  perplexity.  She  could  continue  to  get  hay  down  to  feed  it, 
but  she  had  never  in  her  life  milked  a  cow.  The  first  day  the  servant 
of  the  farmer's  wife,  who  lived  at  the  end  of  the  yard,  milked  it  for 
her  willingly,  but  the  next  day  Mrs.  Carlyle  heard  the  poor  cow 
making  an  uncomfortable  noise  ;  it  had  not  been  milked.  She  went 
herself  to  the  byre,  and  took  the  pail  and  sat  down  on  the  milking- 
stool  and  began  to  try  to  milk  the  cow.  It  was  not  at  first  easy  ;  but 
at  last  she  had  the  delight  of  hearing  the  milk  trickle  into  the  can. 
She  said  she  felt  quite  proud  of  her  success  ;  and  talked  to  the  cow 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  339 

as  though  it  were  a  human  creature.  The  snow  continued  to  lie  thick 
and  heavy  on  the  ground,  and  it  was  impossible  for  her  maid  to  re- 
turn. Mrs.  Carlyle  got  on  easily  with  all  the  housework,  and  kept 
the  whole  place  bright  and  clean  except  the  large  kitchen  or  house 
place,  which  grew  to  need  scouring  very  much.  At  length  she  took 
courage  to  attack  it.  Filling  up  two  large  pans  of  hot  water,  she 
knelt  down  and  began  to  scrub  ;  having  made  a  clean  space  round 
the  large  arm-chair  by  the  fireside,  she  called  Mr.  Carlyle  and  in- 
stalled him  with  his  pipe  to  watch  her  progress.  He  regarded  her 
beneficently,  and  gave  her  from  time  to  time  words  of  encourage- 
ment. Half  the  large  floor  had  been  successfully  cleansed,  and  she 
felt  anxious  of  making  a  good  ending,  when  she  heard  a  gurgling 
sound.  For  a  moment  or  two  she  took  no  notice,  but  it  increased 
and  there  was  a  sound  of  something  falling  upon  the  fire,  and  instant- 
ly a  great  black  thick  stream  came  down  the  chimney,  pouring  like 
a  flood  along  the  floor,  taking  precisely  the  lately  cleaned  portion 
first  in  its  course,  and  extinguishing  the  fire.  It  was  too  much  ;  she 
burst  into  tears.  The  large  fire,  made  up  to  heat  the  water,  had 
melted  the  snow  on  the  top  of  the  chimney,  it  came  down  mingling 
with  the  soot,  and  worked  destruction  to  the  kitchen  floor.  A.11  that 
could  be  done  was  to  dry  up  the  flood.  She  had  no  heart  to  recom- 
mence her  task.  She  rekindled  the  fire  and  got  tea  ready.  That 
same  night  her  maid  came  back,  having  done  the  impossible  to  get 
home.  She  clasped  Mrs.  Carlyle  in  her  arms,  crying  and  laughing, 
saying  "  Oh,  my  dear  mistress,  my  dear  mistress,  I  dreamed  ye  were 
deed ! " 

During  their  residence  at  Craigenputtoch,  she  had  a  good  little 
horse,  called  "  Harry,"  on  which  she  sometimes  rode  long  distances. 
She  was  an  excellent  and  fearless  horsewoman,  and  went  about  like 
the  women  used  to  do  before  carriages  were  invented.  One  day  she 
received  news  that  Lord  Jeffrey  and  his  family,  with  some  visitors, 
were  coming.  The  letter  only  arrived  the  day  they  were  expected 
(for  letters  only   came    in  one  day  in   the   week).     She   mounted 


-40  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

"  Harrv"  and  galloped  off  to  Dumfries  to  get  what  was  needed  and 
walloped  back,  and  was  all  ready  and  dressed  to  receive  her  visitors 
with  no  trace  of  her  thirty  mile  ride  except  the  charming  history  she 
made  of  it.  She  said  that  "  Harry"  understood  all  was  needed  of 
him. 

She  had  a  long  and  somewhat  anxious  ride  at  another  time.  Mr. 
Carlyle  had  gone  to  London,  leaving  her  to  finish  winding  up  affairs 
at  Craigenputtoch  and  to  follow  him.  The  last  day  came.  She  got 
the  money  out  of  the  bank  at  Dumfries,  dined  with  a  friend,  and 
mounted  her  horse  to  ride  to  Ecclefechan,  where  she  was  to  stay  for 
a  day  or  two.  Whether  she  paid  no  attention  to  the  road  or  did  not 
know  it  I  don't  know ;  but  she  lost  her  way  :  and  at  dusk  found  her- 
self entering  Dumfries  from  the  other  side,  having  made  a  circuit. 
She  alighted  at  the  friend's  house  where  she  had  dined,  to  give  her 
horse  a  rest.  She  had  some  tea  herself,  and  then  mounted  again  to 
proceed  on  her  journey,  fearing  that  those  to  whom  she  was  going 
would  be  alarmed  if  she  did  not  ap'pear.  This  time  she  made  sure 
she  was  on  the  right  tack.  It  was  growing  dusk,  and  at  a  joining 
of  two  roads  she  came  upon  a  party  of  men  half-tipsy,  coming  from 
a  fair.  They  accosted  her,  and  asked  where  she  was  going,  and 
would  she  come  along  with  them  ?  She  was  rather  frightened,  for 
she  had  a  good  deal  of  money  about  her,  so  she  imitated  a  broad 
country  dialect,  and  said  their  road  was  not  hers,  and  that  she  had 
"a  gey  piece  to  ride  before  she  got  to  Annan."  She  whipped  her 
horse,  and  took  the  other  road,  thinking  she  could  easily  return  to 
the  right  track  ;  but  she  had  again  lost  her  way  and,  seeing  a  house 
with  a  light  in  the  lower  story,  she  rede  up  the  avenue  which  led 
to  it.  Some  women-servants  had  got  up  early,  or  rather  late  at 
night,  to  begin  their  washing.  She  knocked  at  the  window.  At 
first  they  thought  it  was  one  of  their  sweethearts  ;  but  when  they 
saw  a  lady  on  a  horse  they  thought  it  a  ghost.  After  a  while  she  got 
them  to  listen  to  her,  and  when  she  told  them  her  tale  they  were 
vehement  in  their  sympathy,  and  would  have  had  her  come  in  to  re- 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  34I 

fresh  herself.  They  gave  her  a  cup  of  their  tea,  and  one  of  them 
came  with  her  to  the  gate,  and  set  her  face  towards  the  right  road. 
She  had  actually  come  back  to  within  a  mile  of  Dumfries  once  more! 
The  church  clocks  struck  twelve  as  she  set  out  a  third  time,  and  it 
was  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  she  arrived,  dead  tired, 
she  and  her  horse  too,  at  Ecclefechan  ;  where  hovv'ever  she  had  long 
since  been  given  up.  The  inmates  had  gone  to  bed,  and  it  was  long 
before  she  could  make  them  hear.  After  a  day  or  two  of  repose,  she 
proceeded  to  join  Mr.  Carlyle  in  London.  At  first  they  lived  in 
lodgings  with  some  people  who  were  very  kind  to  them  and  became 
much  attached  to  her.  They  looked  upon  her  as  a  superior  being, 
of  another  order,  to  themselves.  The  children  were  brought  up  to 
think  of  her  as  a  sort  of  fairy  lady.  One  day,  a  great  many  years 
afterwards,  when  I  had  come  to  live  in  London,  it  was  my  birthday, 
and  we  resolved  to  celebrate  it  "by  doing  something  ;  "  and  at  last 
we  settled  that  she  should  take  me  to  see  the  daughter  of  the  people 
she  used  to  lodge  with,  who  had  been  an  affectionate  attendant 
upon  her,  and  who  was  now  very  well  married,  and  an  extremely 
happy  woman.  Mrs.  Carlyle  said  it  was  a  good  omen  to  go  and  see 
"a  happy  woman"  on  such  a  day!  So  she  and  I,  and  her  dog 
"  Nero,"  who  accompanied  her  wherever  she  went,  set  off  to  Dalston 
where  the  "  happy  woman"  lived.  I  forget  her  name,  except  that 
she  was  called  '■'■Eliza."  It  was  washing  day,  and  the  husband  was 
absent ;  but  I  remember  a  pleasant-looking  kind  woman,  who  gave 
us  a  nice  tea,  and  rejoiced  over  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  said  she  had 
brought  up  her  children  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her  some  day.  She 
lived  in  a  house  in  a  row,  with  little  gardens  before  them.  We  saw 
the  children,  who  were  like  others  ;  and  we  went  home  by  omnibus; 
and  we  had  enjoyed  our  Uttle  outing  ;  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  gave  me  a 
pretty  lace  collar,  and  Bohemian-glass  vase,  which  is  still  unbroken. 

I  end  these  "  stories  told  by  herself,"  not  because  there  are  no 
more.  They  give  some  slight  indication  of  the  courage  and  noble- 
ness and  fine  qualities  which  lay  in    her  who  is    gone.     Very  few 


342  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

women  so  truly  great  come  into  the  world  at  all  ;  and  no  two  like  her 
at  the  same  time.  Those  who  were  her  friends  will  only  go  on  feel- 
in2  their  loss  and  their  sorrow  more  and  more  every  day  of  their 
own  lives.  G.  E.  J. 

Chelsea,  May  20,  iS66. 


So  far  Miss  Jewsbury.  Mr.  Carlyle  now  continues  : 
Few  or  none  of  these  narratives  are  correct  in  details, 
but  there  is  a  certain  mythical  truth  in  all  or  most  of 
them.  That  of  young  lovers,  especially  that  of  flirting,  is 
much  exaggerated.  If  "flirt"  means  one  who  tries  to 
inspire  love  without  feeling  it,  I  do  not  think  she  ever  was 
a  flirt;  but  she  was  very  charming,  full  of  grave  clear  in- 
sight, playful  humour,  and  also  of  honest  dignity  and 
pride  ;  and  not  a  few  young  fools  of  her  own,  and  perhaps 
a  slightly  better  station,  made  offers  to  her  which  some- 
times to  their  high  temporary  grief  and  astonishment  were 
decisively  rejected.  The  most  serious-looking  of  those 
affairs  was  that  of  George  Rennie,  nephew  of  the  first 
Engineer  Rennie,  a  clever,  decisive,  ambitious,  but  quite 
/^//melodious  young  fellow,  whom  we  knew  afterwards 
here  as  sculptor,  as  M.P.  for  a  while,  finally  as  retired 
Governor  of  the  Falkland  Islands,  in  which  latter  charac- 
ter he  died  here  seven  or  eight  years  ago.  She  knew 
him  thoroughly,  had  never  loved  him,  but  respected  vari- 
ous qualities  in  him,  and  naturally  had  some  peculiar 
interest  in  him  to  the  last.  In  his  final  time  he  used  to 
come  pretty  often  down  to  us  here,  and  was  well  worth 
talking  to  on  his  Falkland  or  other  experiences.;  a  man 
of  sternly  sound  common  sense  (so  called),  of  strict  vera- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  343 

city,  who  much  contemned  imbecility,  falsity,  or  nonsense 
wherever  met  with  ;  had  swallowed  manfully  his  many 
bitter  disappointments,  and  silently  awaited  death  itself 
for  the  last  year  or  more  (as  I  could  notice),  with  a  fine 
honest  stoicism  always  complete.  My  poor  Jane  hurried 
to  his  house,  and  was  there  for  three  days  zealously  assist- 
ing the  widow. 

The  wooer  who  would  needs  die  for  want  of  success, 
was  a  Fyfe  M.  D. ,  an  extremely  conceited  limited,  strutting 
little  creature,  who  well  deserved  all  he  got  or  more. 
The  end  of  him  had  something  of  tragedy  in  it,  but  is  not 
worth  recording. 

Dods  is  the  "peasant  schoolfellow's"  name,  about 
seven  or  eight  years  her  senior,  son  of  a  nurseryman,  now 
rich  abundantly,  banker,  etc.  etc.,  and  an  honest  kindly, 
though  clumsy  prosaic  man. 

The  story  of  her  being  taken  as  a  child  to  drive  with 
her  father  has  some  truth  in  it,  but  consists  of  two  stories 
rolled  into  one.  Child  of  seven  or  eight  "with  watch 
forgotten,"  was  to  the  Press  Inn  (then  a  noted  place,  and 
to  her  an  ever-memorable  expedition  beside  a  father  almost 
her  divinity) ;  but  drive  second,  almost  still  more  memora- 
ble, was  for  an  afternoon  or  several  hours  as  a  young  girl 
of  eighteen,  over  some  district  of  her  father's  duties.  She 
waiting  in  the  carriage  unnoticed,  while  he  made  his  visits. 
The  usually  tacit  man,  tacit  especially  about  his  bright 
daughter's  gifts  and  merits,  took  to  talking  with  her  that 
day  in  a  style  quite  new  ;  told  her  she  was  a  good  girl, 
capable  of  being  useful  and  precious  to  him  and  the  circle 
she  would  live    in ;    that   she  must  summon  her  utmost 


344  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

judgment  and  seriousness  to  choose  her  path,  and  be  what 
he  expected  of  her;  that  he  did  not  think  she  ha.d  yet 
seen  the  hfe  partner  that  would  be  worthy  of  her — in  short 
that  he  expected  her  to  be  wise  as  well  as  good-looking 
and  good  ;  all  this  in  a  tone  and  manner  which  filled  her 
poor  little  heart  with  surprise,  and  a  kind  of  sacred  joy, 
coming  from  the  man  she  of  all  men  revered. 

Often  she  told  me  about  this,  for  it  was  her  last  talk 
with  him.  On  the  morrow,  perhaps  that  evening,  cer- 
tainl}'  within  a  day  or  two,  he  caught  from  some  poor  old 
woman  patient  a  typhus  fever,  which  under  injudicious 
treatment  killed  him  in  three  or  four  days  (September 
1 8 19),  and  drowned  the  world  for  her  in  the  very  black- 
ness of  darkness.  In  effect  it  was  hei,-  first  sorrow,  and 
her  greatest  of  all.  It  broke  her  health  for  the  next  two 
or  three  years,  and  in  a  sense  almost  broke  her  heart.  A 
father  so  mourned  and  loved  I  have  never  seen ;  to  the 
end  of  her  life  his  title  even  to  me  was  "he  "  and  "  him  ;  " 
not  above  twice  or  thrice,  quite  in  late  years,  did  she  ever 
mention  (and  then  in  a  quite  slow  tone),  "  my  father ; " 
nay,  I  have  a  kind  of  notion  (beautiful  to  me  and  sad 
exceedingly),  she  was  never  as  happy  again,  after  that 
sunniest  youth  of  hers,  as  in  the  last  eighteen  months,  and 
especially  the  last  two  weeks  of  her  life,  when  after  wild 
rain  deluges  and  black  tempests  many,  the  sun  shone 
forth  again  for  another's  sake  with  full  mild  brightness, 
taking  sweet  farewell.  Oh,  it  is  beautiful  to  me,  and  oh, 
it  is  humbling  and  it  is  sad  !  Where  was  my  Jeannie's 
peer  in  this  world  ?  and  she  fell  to  me,  and  I  could  not 
screen  her  from  the  bitterest  distresses  !     God  pity  and 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  345 

forgive  me.     My  own  burden,  too,  might  have  broken  a 
stronger  back,  had  not  she  been  so  loyal  and  loving. 

The  Geraldine  accounts  of  her  childhood  are  substan- 
tially correct,  but  without  the  light  melodious  clearness 
and  charm  of  a  fairy  tale  all  true,  which  my  lost  one  used 
to  give  them  in  talking  to  me.  She  was  fond  of  talking 
about  her  childhood  ;  nowhere  in  the  world  did  I  ever 
hear  of  one  more  beautiful,  all  sunny  to  her  and  to  me,  to 
our  last  years  together. 

That  of  running  on  the  parapet  of  the  Nungate  Bridge 
(John  Knox's  old  subuirb),  I  recollect  well ;  that  of  the 
boy  with  the  bloody  nose  ;  many  adventures  skating  and 
leaping  ;  that  of  Penna,  pennae  from  below  the  table  is 
already  in  print  through  Mrs.  Oliphant's  "  Life  of  Irving." 
In  all  things  she  strove  to  "  be  a  boy"  in  education  ;  and 
yet  by  natural  guidance  never  ceased  to  be  the  prettiest 
and  gracefullest  of  little  girls,  full  of  intelligence,  of  ve- 
racity, vivacity,  and  bright  curiosity  ;  she  went  into  all 
manner  of  shops  and  workshops  that  were  accessible, 
eager  to  see  and  understand  what  was  going  on.  One 
morning,  perhaps  in  her  third  or  fourth  year,  she  went 
into  the  shop  of  a  barber  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  back  from  which  by  a  narrow  entrance  was  her  own 
nice,  elegant,  quiet  home.  Barber's  shop  was  empty ; 
my  Jeannie  went  in  silently,  sate  down  on  a  bench  at  the 
wall,  old  barber  giving  her  a  kind  glance,  but  no  word. 
Presently  a  customer  came  irf,  was  soaped  and  lathered  in 
silence  mainly  or  altogether,  was  getting  diligently  shaved, 
my  bonny  little  bird  as  attentive  as  possible,  and  all  in 
perfect  silence.     Customer  at  length  said  in  a  pause  of  the 


345  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

razor,  "How  is  John  so  and  so  now?"  "  He's  deed  " 
(dead),  replied  barber  in  a  rough  hollow  voice,  and 
instantly  pushed  on  with  business  again.  The  bright  little 
child  burst  into  tears  and  hurried  out.  This  she  told  me 
not  half  a  year  ago. 

Her  first  school  teacher  was  Edward  Irving,  who  also 
gave  her  private  lessons  in  Latin  etc.,  and  became  an 
intimate  of  her  family.  It  was  from  him  (probably  in 
1818),  that  I  first  heard  of  her  father  and  her,  some  casual 
mention,  the  loving  and  reverential  tone  of  which  had 
struck  me.  Of  the  father  he  spoke  always  as  of  one  of 
the  wisest,  truest,  and  most  dignified  of  men.  Of  her  as 
a  paragon  of  gifted  young  girls,  far  enough  from  me  both, 
and  objects  of  distant  reverence  and  unattainable  longing 
at  that  time  !  The  father,  whom  I  never  saw,  died  next 
year.  Her  I  must  have  seen  first  I  think  in  June  1821. 
Sight  for  ever  memorable  to  me.  I  looked  up  at  the 
windows  of  the  old  room,  in  the  desolate  moonlight  of  my 
last  visit  to  Haddington  '  five  weeks  ago  come  Wednesday 
next :  and  the  old  summer  dusk,  and  that  bright  pair  of 
eyes  enquiringly  fixed  on  me  (as  I  noticed  for  a  moment) 
came  up  clear  as  yesterday,  all  drowned  in  woes  and  death. 
Her  second  teacher  (Irving's  successor)  was  a  Rev.  James 
Brown,  who  died  in  India,  whom  also  I  slightly  knew. 
The  school  I  believe  was,  and  is,  at  the  western  end  of 
the  Nungate  Bridge,  and  grew  famed  in  the  neighbour- 
hood by  Irving's  new  methods  and  managements  (adopted 
as  far  as  might  be  by  Brown) ;  a  short  furlong  or  so  along 
paved  streets  from  her  father's  house.     Thither  daily  at 

*  Mrs.  Carlyle's  funeral. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  347 

an  early  hour  (perhaps  eight  A.M.  in  summer),  might  be 
seen  my  httle  Jeannie  tripping  nimbly  and  daintily  along, 
her  little  satchel  in  hand,  dressed  by  her  mother  (who  had 
a  great  talent  that  way)  in  tasteful  simplicity ;  neat  bit  of 
pelisse  (light  blue  sometimes),  fastened  with  black  belt, 
dainty  little  cap,  perhaps  little  beaverkin  (with  flap  turned 
up),  and  I  think  one  at  least  with  modest  Httle  plume  in 
it.  Fill  that  figure  with  electric  intellect,  ditto  love  and 
generous  vivacity  of  all  kinds,  where  in  nature  will  you 
find  a  prettier  ? 

At  home  was  opulence  without  waste,  elegance,  good 
sense,  silent  practical  affection  and  manly  wisdom,  from 
threshold  to  roof-tree,  no  paltriness  or  unveracity  admit- 
ted into  it.  I  often  told  her  how  very  beautiful  her  child- 
hood was  to  me,  so  authentic-looking  actual,  in  her 
charming  naive  and  humorous  way  of  telling,  and  that 
she  must  have  been  the  prettiest  little  Jenny  Spinner 
(Scotch  name  for  a  long-winged,  long-legged,  extremely 
bright  and  airy  insect)  that  was  dancing  in  the  summer 
rays  in  her  time.  More  enviable  lot  than  all  this  was  I 
cannot  imagine  to  myself  in  any  house  high  or  low,  in  the 
higher  and  highest  still  less  than  in  the  other  kind. 

Three  or  four  child  anecdotes  I  will  mark  as  ready  at 
this  time. 

Father  and  mother  returning  from  some  visit  (prob- 
ably to  Nithsdale)  along  with  her  (age  say  four),  at  the 
Black  Bull,  Edinburgh,  and  were  ordering  dinner.  Wait- 
er, rather  solemn  personage,  enquired,  "And  what  will 
little  missy  eat?"  "A  roasted  bumm  bee"  (humming 
or  field  bee)  answered  little  missy. 


348  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

"Mamma,  wine  makes  cosy!"  said  the  little  natural- 
ist once  at  home  (year  before  perhaps)  while  sipping  a 
drop  of  wine  mamma  had  given  her. 

One  of  the  prettiest  stories,  was  of  the  child's  first 
ball,  "  Dancing  School  Ball,"  her  first  public  appearance 
as  it  were  on  the  theatre  of  the  world.  Of  this,  in  the 
daintiest  style  of  kind  mockery,  I  often  heard,  and  have 
the  general  image  still  vivid  ;  but  have  lost  the  express 
details,  or  rather,  in  my  ignorance  of  such  things,  never 
completely  understood  the  details.  How  the  evening  was 
so  great ;  all  the  higher  pubhc,  especially  the  maternal 
or  paternal  sections  of  it,  to  see  the  children  dance  ;  and 
Jeannie  Welsh,  then  about  six,  had  been  selected  to  per- 
form some  /> as  seul  beautiful  and  difficult,  the  jewel  of  the 
evening,  and  was  privately  anxious  in  her  little  heart  to 
do  it  well ;  how  she  was  dressed  to  perfection,  with  ele- 
gance, with  simplicity,  and  at  the  due  hour  was  carried 
over  in  a  clothes-basket  (streets  being  muddy  and  no  car- 
riage), and  landed  safe,  pretty  silks  and  pumps  uninjured. 
Through  the  ball  everything  went  well  and  smoothly, 
nothing  to  be  noted  till  the  Jyas  sad  came.  My  little 
woman  (with  a  look  that  I  can  still  fancy)  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  stood  w^aiting  for  the  music  ;  music  began,  but 
also,  alas,  it  was  the  wrong  music,  impossible  to  dance 
^zX.  pas  sciil  lo  \\..  She  shook  her  little  head,  looked  or 
made  some  sign  of  distress.  Music  ceased,  took  counsel, 
scraped  ;  began  again  ;  again  wrong  ;  hopelessly,  flatly 
impossible.  Beautiful  little  Jane,  alone  against  the  world, 
forsaken  by  the  music  but  not  by  her  presence  of  mind, 
plucked  up  her  little  skirt,  flung  it  over  her  head,  and 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  349 

curtseying  in  that  veiled  manner,  withdrew  from  the  ad- 
venture amidst  general  applause. 

The  last  of  my  anecdotes  is  not  easily  intelligible  ex^ 
cept  to  myself  Old  Walter  Welsh,  her  maternal  grand- 
father, was  a  most  picturesque  peculiar,  generous-hearted, 
hot-tempered  abrupt  and  impatient  old  man.  I  guess  she 
might  be  about  six,  and  was  with  her  mother  on  a  visit ; 
I  know  not  whether  at  Capelgill  (Moffat  Water)  or  at 
Strathmilligan.  Old  Walter,  who  was  of  few  words 
though  of  very  lively  thought  and  insight,  had  a  burr  in 
pronouncing  his  r,  and  spoke  in  the  old  style  generally. 
He  had  taken  little  Jeannie  out  to  ride  on  a  quiet  pony  ; 
very  pleasant  winding  ride,  and  at  length  when  far 
enough,  old  Walter  said,  "Now  we  will  go  back  by  so 
and  so,  etc.,  to  vary  the  scene."  Home  at  dinner,  the 
company  asked  her,  "Where  did  you  ride  to.  Pen?" 
(Pen  was  her  little  name  there,  from  paternal  grand- 
father's house,  Penfillan,  to  distinguish  her  from  the  other 
Welshes  of  Walter's  household.)  "We  rode  to  so,  then 
to  so,''  answered  she  punctually  ;  "  then  from  so  returned 
by  so,  to  vah-chry  the  shanc  !  "  At  which  I  suppose  the 
old  man  himself  burst  into  his  cheeriest  'laugh  at  the 
mimicry  of  tiny  little  Pen.  "  Mamma,  oh  mamma,  don't 
exposie  me,"  exclaimed  she  once,  not  yet  got  quite  the 
length  of  speaking,  when  her  mother  for  some  kind  pur- 
pose was  searching  under  her  clothes. 

But  I  intend  to  put  down  something  about  her  parent- 
age now,  and  what  of  reminiscence  must  live  with  me  on 
that  head. 

John   Welsh,    farmer,    of    Penfillan,    near    Thornhill, 


350  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

Nithsdalc,  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  was  born  I 
believe  at  Craigenputtoch,  December  9,  1757  ;  and  wais 
sole  heir  of  that  place,  and  of  many  ancestors  there  ;  my 
wife's  paternal  grandfather,  of  whom  she  had  many  pretty 
things  to  report,  in  her  pleasant  interesting  way  ;  genu- 
ine affection  blending  so  beautifully  with  perfect  candour, 
and  with  arch  recognition  of  whatever  was,  comically  or 
otherwise,  singular  in  the  subject  matter.  Her  father's 
name  was  also  John ;  which  from  of  old  had  specially 
been  that  of  the  laird,  or  of  his  first-born,  as  her  father 
was.  This  is  one  of  the  probabilities  they  used  to  quote 
in  claiming  to  come  from  John  Knox's  youngest  daughter 
and  her  husband,  the  once  famous  John  Welsh,  minister 
of  Ayr  etc.  A  better  probability  perhaps  is  the  topo- 
graphical one  that  Craigenputtoch,  which,  by  site  and 
watershed  would  belong  to  Galloway,  is  still  part  of 
Dumfriesshire,  and  did  apparently  form  part  Collieston, 
fertile  little  farm  still  extant,  which  probably  was  an  im- 
portant estate  when  the  antique  "John  Welsh's  father" 
had  it  in  Knox's  day :  to  which  Collieston,  Craigenput- 
toch, as  moorland,  extending  from  the  head  of  the  Glen- 
essland  valley,' and  a  two  miles  farther  southward  (quite 
over  the  slope  and  down  to  Orr,  the  next  river),  does 
seem  to  have  been  an  appendage.  My  Jeannie  cared 
little  or  nothing  about  these  genealogies,  but  seeing  them 
interest  me,  took  some  interest  in  them.  Within  the  last 
three  months  (^  propos  of  a  new  life  of  the  famed  John 
Welsh),  she  mentioned  to  me  some  to  me  new,  and  still 
livelier  spark  of  likelihood,  which  her  "Uncle  Robert" 
(an  expert  Edinburgh  lawyer)  had  derived  from  reading 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  35  I 

the  old  Craigenputtoch  law-papers.  What  this  new 
"  spark  "  of  light  on  the  matter  was  (quite  forgotten  by 
me  at  the  time,  and  looking  "  new  ")  I  in  vain  strive  to 
recall ;  and  have  again  forgotten  it  (swallowed  in  the  sad 
Edinburgh  hurlyburlies  of  "  three  months  ago,"  which 
have  now  had  such  an  issue  !)  To  my  present  judgment 
there  is  really  good  likelihood  of  the  genealogy,  and  like- 
lihood all  going  that  way  ;  but  no  certainty  attained  or 
perhaps  ever  attainable.  That  "  famed  John  Welsh"  lies 
buried  (since  the  end  of  James  I.'s  reign)  in  some  church- 
yard of  Eastern  London,  name  of  it  known,  but  nothing 
more.  His  grandson  was  minister  of  Erncray  ("Iron- 
gray  "  they  please  to  spell  it)  near  by,  in  Clavers's  bloody 
time  ;  and  there  all  certainty  ends.  .  .  .  By  her  mother's 
mother,  who  was  a  Baillie,  of  somewhat  noted  kindred  in 
Biggar  country,  my  Jeannie  was  further  said  to  be  de- 
scended from  "Sir  William  Wallace"  (the  great);  but 
this  seemed  to  rest  on  nothing  but  air  and  vague  fireside 
rumour  of  obsolete  date,  and  she  herself,  I  think,  except 
perhaps  in  quizzical  allusion,  never  spoke  of  it  to  me  at 
all.  Edward  Irving  once  did  (1822  or  so)  in  his  half- 
laughing  Grandison  way,  as  we  three  sat  together  talk- 
ing. "  From  Wallace  and  from  Knox,"  said  he,  with  a 
wave  of  the  hands  :  "  there's  a  Scottish  pedigree  for  you  !  " 
The  good  Irving  :  so  guileless,  loyal  always,  and  so  hop- 
ing and  so  generous. 

My  wife's  grandfather,  I  can  still  recollect,  died  Sep-^ 
tember  20,  1823,  aged  near  sixty-six  ;  I  was  at  Kinnaird 
(Buller's  in  Perthshire),  and  had  it  in  a  letter  from  her; 
letters  from  her  were  almost  the  sole  light-points  in  my 


352  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

dreary  miseries  there  (fruit  of  miserable  health  mainly, 
and  of  a  future  blank  and  barred  to  me,  as  I  felt).  Trust- 
fully she  gave  me  details  ;  how  he  was  sixty-three  ;  '  hair 
still  raven  black,  only  within  a  year  eyebrows  had  grown 
quite  white  ;  which  had  so  softened  and  sweetened  the 
look  of  his  bright  glancing  black  eyes,  etc.  etc.  A  still 
grief  lay  in  the  dear  letter,  too,  and  much  affection  and 
respect  for  her  old  grandfather  just  gone.  Sweet  and 
soft  to  me  to  look  back  upon  ;  and  very  sad  now,  from 
the  threshold  of  our  own  grave.  My  bonnie  darling  !  I 
shall  follow  thee  very  soon,  and  then^  ! 

Grandfather's  youngest  years  had  been  passed  at 
Craigenputtoch  ;  mother  had  been  left  a  widow  there, 
and  could  not  bear  to  part  with  him  ;  elder  sisters  there 
were,  he  the  only  boy.  Jane  always  thought  him  to 
have  fine  faculty,  a  beautiful  clearness,  decision,  and 
integrity  of  character  ;  but  all  this  had  grown  up  in  soli- 
tude and  vacancy,  under  the  silent  skies  on  the  wild 
moors  for  most  part,  She  sometimes  spoke  of  his  (and 
her)  ulterior  ancestors;  "several  blackguards  among 
them,"  her  old  grandfather  used  to  say,  "but  not  one 
blockhead  that  I  heard  of!  "  Of  one,  flourishing  in  1745, 
there  is  a  story  still  current  among  the  country  people 
thereabouts  ;  how,  though  this  laird  of  Craigenputtoch 
had  not  himself  gone  at  all  into  the  Rebellion,  he  re- 
ceived with  his  best  welcome  certain  other  lairds  or  gen- 
tlemen of  his  acquaintance  v/ho  had,  and  who  were  now 
flying  for  their  life  ;  kept  them  there,  as  in  a  seclusion 
lonelier  almost  than  any  other  in  Scotland  ;  heard  time- 

'  Near  sixty-six  in  fact. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  353 

fully  that  dragoons  were  coming  for  them  ;  shot  them 
thereupon  instantly  away  by  various  well-contrived  routes 
and  equipments  :  and  waited  his  dragoon  guests  as  if 
nothing  were  wrong,  "  Such  and  such  men  here  with 
you,  aren't  they,  you  — ^!"  said  they.  "Truly  they 
were,  till  three  hours  ago  ;  and  they  are  rebels,  say 
you  ?  Fie,  the  villains,  had  I  but  known  or  dreamt 
of  that  !  But  come,  let  us  chase  immediately  ;  once 
across  the  Orr  yonder  (and  the  swamps  on  this  side, 
which  look  green  enough  from  here),  you  find  firm  road, 
and  will  soon  catch  the  dogs  !  "  Welsh  mounted  his  gal- 
loway, undertook  to  guide  the  dragoons  through  that 
swamp  or  "  bottom  "  (still  a  place  that  needed  guiding 
in  our  time,  though  there  did  come  at  last  a  "  solid  road 
and  bridge  "),  Welsh,  trotting  along  on  his  light  gallo- 
way, guided  the  dragoons  in  such  way  that  their  heavy 
animals  sank  mostly  or  altogether  in  the  treacherous  ele- 
ment, safe  only  for  a  native  galloway  and  man  ;  and  with 
much  pretended  lamentation,  seeing  them  provided  with 
work  that  would  last  till  darkness  had  fallen,  rode  his 
ways  again.  I  believe  this  was  true  in  substance,  but 
never  heard  any  of  the  saved  rebels  named.  Maxwells 
etc.,  who  are  of  Roman-Catholic  Jacobite  type,  abound 
in  those  parts  :  a  Maxwell,  I  think,  is  feudal  superior  of 
Craigenputtoch.  This  Welsh,  I  gather,  must  have  been 
grandfather  of  my  wife's  grandfather.  She  had  strange 
stories  of  his  wives  (three  in  succession,  married  perhaps 
all,  especially  the  second  and  third,  for  money),  and  how 
he  kept  the  last  of  them,  a  decrepit  ill-natured  creature, 

invisible  in  some  corner  of  his  house,  and  used  gravely  to 
23 


354  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

introduce  visitors  to  her  "  gown  and  bonnet  "  hanging  on 
a  stick  as  "  Mrs.  Welsh  III."  Him  his  grandson  doubt- 
less ranked  among  the  "blackguard"  section  of  ancestry  ; 
I  suppose  his  immediate  heir  may  have  died  shortly  after 
him,  and  was  an  unexceptionable  man. 

In  about  1773,  friends  persuaded  the  widow  of  this 
latter  that  she  absolutely  must  send  her  boy  away  for 
some  kind  of  schooling,  his  age  now  fourteen,  to  which 
she  sorrowfully  consenting,  he  was  despatched  to  Tynron 
school  (notable  at  that  time)  about  twelve  miles  over  the 
hills  Nithsdale  way,  and  consigned  to  a  farmer  named 
Hunter,  whose  kin  are  now  well  risen  in  the  world  there- 
abouts, and  who  was  thought  to  be  a  safe  person  for 
boarding  and  supervising  the  young  moorland  laird.  The 
young  laird  must  have  learned  well  at  school,  for  he  wrote 
a  fine  hand  (which  I  have  seen)  and  had  acquired  the  or- 
dinary elements  of  country  education  in  a  respectable  way 
in  the  course  of  one  year  as  turned  out.  Within  one 
year,  February  16,  1774,  these  Hunters  had  married  him 
to  their  eldest  girl  (about  sixteen,  four  months  younger 
than  himself),  and  his  schooldays  were  suddenly  com- 
pleted !  This  young  girl  was  my  Jeannie's  grandmother; 
had  I  think  some  fourteen  children,  mostly  men  (of  whom, 
or  of  whose  male  posterity,  none  now  survive,  except  the 
three  Edinburgh  aunts,  youngest  of  them  a  month  younger 
than  my  Jane  was) ;  and  thus  held  the  poor  laird's  face 
considerably  to  the  grindstone  all  his  days  !  I  have  seen 
the  grandmother,  in  her  old  age  and  widowhood,  a  re- 
spectable-looking old  person  (lived  then  with  her  three 
daughters  in  a  house  they  had  purchased  at  Dumfries) ; 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  355 

silently  my  woman  never  much  liked  her  or  hers  (a  palpa- 
bly rather  tricky,  cunning  set  these,  with  a  turn  for  osten- 
tation and  hypocrisy  in  them)  ;  and  was  accustomed  to 
divide  her  uncles  (not  without  some  ground,  as  I  could 
see)  into  "  Welshes,"  and  "  Welshes  with  a  cross  of  Hun- 
ter," traceable  oftenest  (not  always  though)  in  their  very 
physiognomy  and  complexion.  They  are  now  all  gone  ; 
the  kindred  as  good  as  out,  only  their  works  following 
them,  talia  qiialia  ! 

This  imprudent  marriage  reduced  the  poor  young  man 
to  pecuniary  straits  (had  to  sell  first  Nether  Craigenput- 
toch,  a  minor  part,  in  order  to  pay  his  sisters'  portion, 
then  long  years  afterwards,  in  the  multitude  of  his  chil- 
dren. Upper  Craigenputtoch,  or  Craigenputtoch  Proper; 
to  my  wife's  father  this  latter  sale),  and  though,  being  a 
thrifty  vigorous  and  solid  manager,  he  prospered  hand- 
somely in  his  farming,  first  of  Milton,  then  ditto  of  Penfil- 
lan,  the  best  thing  he  could  try  in  the  circumstances,  and 
got  completely  above  all  money  difficulties,  the  same 
"  circumstances"  kept  him  all  his  days  a  mere  "  t err (2 fi- 
lms,'' restricted  to  Nithsdale  and  his  own  eyesight  (which 
indeed  was  excellent)  for  all  the  knowledge  he  could  get 
of  this  universe  ;  and  on  the  whole  had  made  him,  such 
the  contrast  between  native  vigour  of  faculty  and  acciden- 
tal contraction  of  arena,  a  singular  and  even  interesting 
man,  a  Scottish  Nithsdale  son  of  nature  ;  highly  interest- 
ing to  his  bright  young  granddaughter,  with  the  clear 
eyesight  and  valiant  true  heart  like  his  own,  when  she 
came  to  look  into  him  in  her  childhood  and  girlhood.  He 
was  solidly  devout,  truth's  own  self  in  what  he  said  and 


35^  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

did,  had  dignity  of  manners  too,  in  fact  a  really  brave 
sincere  and  honourable  soul  (reverent  of  talent,  honesty, 
and  sound  sense  beyond  all  things),  and  was  silently  a 
good  deal  respected  and  honourably  esteemed  (though 
with  a  grin  here  and  there)  in  the  district  where  he  lived. 
For  chief  or  almost  sole  intimate  he  had  the  neighbour- 
ing  (biggish)  laird,  "old  Hoggan  of  Waterside,"  almost 
close  by  Penfillan,  whose  peremptory  ways  and  angulari- 
ties of  mind  and  conduct,  are  still  remembered  in  that  re- 
gion sorrowfully  and  strangely,  as  his  sons,  grandsons, 
and  now  great-grandson,  have  distinguished  themselves 
in  the  other  direction  there.  It  was  delightful  to  hear 
my  bright  one  talk  of  this  old  grandfather;  so  kindly  yet 
so  playfully,  with  a  vein  of  fond  affection,  yet  with  the 
justest  insight.  In  his  last  will  (owing  to  Hunterian  arti- 
fices and  unkind  whisperings,  as  she  thought)  he  had 
omitted  her,  though  her  father  had  been  such  a  second 
father  to  all  the  rest  : — 1,000/.  apiece  might  be  the  share 
of  each  son  and  each  daughter  in  this  deed  of  the  old 
man's  ;  and  my  Jane's  name  was  not  found  there,  as  if  she 
too  had  been  dead  like  her  beneficent  father.  Less  care 
for  the  money  no  creature  in  the  world  could  have  had  ; 
but  the  neglect  had  sensibly  grieved  her,  though  she 
never  at  all  blamed  the  old  man  himself,  and  before  long, 
as  was  visible,  had  forgiven  the  suspected  Hunterian  par- 
ties themselves,  "  poor  souls,  so  earnest  about  their  pal- 
try bits  of  interests,  which  are  the  vitallest  and  highest 
they  have!  or  perhaps  it  was  some  whim  of  the  old  man 
himself?  Never  mind,  never  mind  !  "  And  so,  as  I  could 
perceive,  it  actually  was  abolished  in  that  generous  heart, 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  357 

and  not  there  any  longer  before  much  time  had  passed. 
Here  are  two  pictures,  a  wise  and  an  absurd,  two  of  very- 
many  she  used  to  give  me  of  loved  old  grandfather,  with 
which  surely  I  may  end  : 

I.  "  Never  hire  as  servant  a  very  poor  person's  daugh- 
ter or  son  ;  they  have  seen  nothing  but  confusion,  waste, 
and  huggermugger,  mere  want  of  thrift  or  method." 
This  was  a  very  wise  opinion  surely.  On  the  other 
hand  — 

He  was  himself  a  tall  man,  perhaps  six  feet  or  more, 
and  stood  erect  as  a  column.  And  he  had  got  gradually 
into  his  head,  supported  by  such  observation  as  the  arena 
of  Kier  parish  and  neighbouring  localities  afforded,  the 
astonishing  opinion— 

2.  That  small  people,  especially  short  people,  were  good 
for  nothing  ;  and  in  fine  that  a  man's  bodily  stature  was  a 
correctish  sign  of  his  spiritual  !  Actually  so,  and  would 
often  make  new  people,  aspiring  to  be  acquaintances, 
stand  up  and  be  measured,  that  he  might  have  their 
inches  first  of  all.  Nothing  could  drive  this  out  of  him  ; 
nothing  till  he  went  down  once  to  sit  on  a  jury  at  Dum- 
fries ;  and  for  pleader  to  him  had  Francis  Jeffrey,  a  man 
little  above  five  feet,  and  evidently  the  cleverest  advocate 
one  had  ever  heard  or  dreamed  of  !  Ah  me  !  these  were 
such  histories  and  portrayings  as  I  shall  never  hear  again, 
nor  I  think  did  ever  hear,  for  some  of  the  qualities  they 
had. 

John  Welsh,  my  wife's  father,  was  born  at  Craigen- 
puttoch  (I  now  find,  which  gives  the  place  a  new  interest 
to    me),  April    4,    1776,  little  more  than  eighteen    years 


358  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

younger  than  his  father,  or  than  his  mother.  His  first 
three  years  or  so  (probably  till  May  26,  1779,  when  the 
parents  may  have  moved  to  Milton  in  Tynron)  must  have 
been  passed  in  those  solitudes.  At  Milton  he  would  see 
'his  poor  young  sister  die — wonted  playmate  sadly  vanish 
from  the  new  hearth — and  would  no  doubt  have  his 
thoughts  about  it  (my  own  little  sister  Jenny  in  a  similar 
stage,  and  my  dear  mother's  tears  about  her,  I  can  vivid- 
ly remember  ;  the  strangely  silent  white-sheeted  room  ; 
white  sheeted  linen-curtained  bed,  and  small  piece  of  ele- 
vation there,  which  the  joiner  was  about  measuring  ;  and 
my  own  outburst  into  weeping  thereupon,  I  hardly  knew 
why,  my  first  passing  glance  at  the  spectre  Death). 
More  we  know  not  of  the  boy's  biography  there  ;  except 
that  it  seems  to  have  lasted  about  seven  years  at  Milton  ; 
and  that,  no  doubt,  he  had  been  for  three  or  four  years 
at  school  there  (Tynron  school,  we  may  well  guess)  when 
(1785  or  6)  the  family  shifted  with  him  to  Penfillan.  There 
probably  he  spent  some  four  or  five  years  more  ;  Tynron 
was  still  his  school,  to  which  he  could  walk  ;  and  where  I 
conclude  he  must  have  got  what  Latin  and  other  educa- 
tion he  had.  Very  imperfect  he  himself,  as  I  have  evi- 
dence, considered  it  ;  and  in  his  busiest  time  he  never 
ceased  to  struggle  for  improvement  of  it.  Touching  to 
know,  and  how  superlatively  well,  in  other  far  more  im- 
portant respects,  nature  and  his  own  reflections  and  in- 
spirations had  "educated"  him.  Better  than  one  of 
many  thousands,  as  I  do  perceive  !  Closeburn  (a  school 
still  of  fame)  lay  on  the  other  side  of  Nith  River,  and 
would  be  inaccessible  to  him,  though  daily  visible. 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  359 

What  year  he  first  went  to  Edinburgh,  or  entered  the 
University,  I  do  not  know  ;  I  think  he  was  first  a  kind  of 
apprentice  to  a  famous  Joseph  or  Charles  Bell  (father  of  a 
surgeon  still  in  great  practice  and  renown,  though  intrin- 
sically stupid,  reckoned  a  sad  falling  off  from  his  father, 
in  my  own  time)  ;  and  with  this  famed  Bell  he  was  a 
favourite,  probably  I  think  attending  the  classes  etc., 
while  still  learning  from  Bell.  I  rather  believe  he  never 
took  an  M.D.  degree;  but  was,  and  had  to  be,  content 
with  his  diploma  as  surgeon  ;  very  necessary  to  get  out 
of  his  father's  way,  and  shift  for  himself  in  some  honest 
form  !  Went,  I  should  dimly  guess,  as  assistant  to  some 
old  doctor  at  Haddington  on  Bell's  recommendation. 
Went  first,  I  clearly  find,  as  Regimental  Surgeon,  August 
16,  1796,  into  the  "Perthshire  Fencible  Cavalry,"  and 
served  there  some  three  years.  Carefully  tied  up  and  re- 
posited  by  pious  hands  (seemingly  in  18 19),  I  find  three 
old  "  commissions "  on  parchment,  with  their  stamps, 
seals,  signatures,  etc.  (Surgeon,  August  10,  1796  ;  Cor- 
net, September  15,  1796;  and  Lieutenant,  April  5,  1799) 
which  testify  to  this  ;  after  which  there  could  have  been 
no  "  assistantship  "  with  Somers,  but  purchase  and  full 
practice  at  once,  marriage  itself  having  followed  in  1800, 
the  next  year  after  that  "Lieutenancy"  promotion.  I 
know  not  in  what  year  (say  about  1796,  his  twentieth 
year,  my  first  in  this  world)  Somers  finding  his  assistant 
able  for  everything,  a  man  fast  gaining  knowledge,  and 
acceptable  to  all  the  better  public,  or  to  the  public  alto- 
gether, agreed  in  a  year  or  two,  to  demit,  withdraw  to 
country  retirement,  and  declare  his  assistant  successor,  on 


360  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

condition,  which  soon  proved  easy  and  easier,  of  being  paid 
(I  know  not  for  how  long,  possibly  for  life  of  self  and  wife, 
but  it  did  not  last  long)  an  annuity  of  200/.  Of  which  I 
find  trace  in  that  poor  account  book  (year  — )  of  his  ; 
piously  preserved,  poor  solitary  relic  [no ;  several  more, 
"  commissions,"  lancet,  etc.  found  by  me  since  (July  28, 
'66)],  by  his  daughter  ever  since  his  death. 

Dr.  Welsh's  success  appears  to  have  been,  henceforth 
and  formerly,  swift  and  constant  ;  till,  before  long,  the 
whole  sphere  or  section  of  life  he  was  placed  in  had  in  all 
senses,  pecuniary  and  other,  become  his  own,  and  there 
remained  nothing  more  to  conquer  in  it,  only  very  much 
to  retain  by  the  methods  that  had  acquired  it,  and  to  be 
extremely  thankful  for  as  an  allotment  in  this  world.  A 
truly  superior  man,  according  to  all  the  evidence  I  from 
all  quarters  have.  A  very  valiant  man,  Edward  Irving 
once  called  him  in  my  hearing.  His  medical  sagacity  was 
reckoned  at  a  higher  and  higher  rate,  medical  and  other 
honesty  as  well  ;  for  it  was  by  no  means  as  a  wise  physi- 
cian only,  but  as  an  honourable  exact  and  quietly  digni- 
fied man,  punctual,  faithful  in  all  points,  that  he  was 
esteemed  over  the  country.  It  was  three  years  after  his 
death  when  I  first  came  into  the  circle  which  had  been 
his  ;  and  nowhere  have  I  met  with  a  posthumous  reputa- 
tion that  seemed  to  be  more  unanimous  or  higher  amon^j 
all  ranks  of  men.  The  brave  man  himself  I  never  saw  ; 
but  my  poor  Jcannie,  in  her  best  moments,  often  said  to 
me  about  this  or  that,  "  Yes,  he  would  have  done  it  so  !  " 
"  Ah,  he  would  have  liked  you  !  "  as  her  highest  praise. 
"  Punctuality"  Irving  described  as  a  thing  he  much  in- 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  361 

sisted  on.  Many  miles  daily  of  riding  (three  strong  horses 
in  saddle  always,  with  inventions  against  frost  etc.);  he 
had  appointed  the  minute  everywhere  ;  and  insisted 
calmly  on  having  it  kept  by  all  interested  parties,  high  or 
low.  Gravely  inflexible  where  right  was  concerned  ;  and 
"  very  independent"  where  mere  rank  etc.  attempted  to^ 
avail  upon  him.  Story  of  some  old  valetudinarian  Nabal 
of  eminence  (Nisbet  of  Dirleton,  immensely  rich,  continu- 
ally cockering  himself,  and  suffering) ;  grudging  audibly 
once  at  the  many  fees  he  had  to  pay  (from  his  annual 
30,000/.) : — "  Daresay  I  have  to  pay  you  300/.  a  year,  Dr. 
Welsh  ?  " — "  Nearly  or  fully  that,  I  should  say  ;  all  of  it 
accurately  for  work  done." — "  It's  a  great  deal  of  money, 
though  !  "■ — "  Work  not  demanded,  drain  of  payment  will 
cease  of  course  ;  not  otherwise  ;  "  answered  the  doctor, 
and  came  home  with  the  full  understanding  that  his  Dirle- 
ton practice  and  connection  had  ended.  My  Jeannie  rec- 
ollected his  quiet  report  of  it  to  mamma  and  her,  with 
that  corollary  ;  however,  after  some  short  experience 
(or  re-experience  of  London  doctors)  Nabal  Nisbet  (who 
had  "  butter  churned  daily  for  breakfast,"  as  one  item  of 
expenditure)  came  back,  with  the  necessary  Peccavi  ex- 
pressed or  understood. 

One  anecdote  I  always  remember,  of  the  per  contra 
kind.  Riding  along  one  day  on  his  multifarious  business, 
he  noticed  a  poor  wounded  partridge  fluttering  and  strug- 
gling about,  wing  or  leg,  or  both,  broken  by  some  sports- 
man's lead.  He  alighted  in  his  haste,  or  made  the  groom 
alight  if  he  had  one  ;  gathered  up  the  poor  partridge, 
looped  it  gently  in  his  handkerchief,  brought  it  home ; 


362  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

and,  by  careful  splint  and  salve  and  other  treatment,  had 
it  soon  on  wing-  again,  and  sent  it  forth  healed.  This  in 
so  grave  and  practical  a  man,  had  always  in  it  a  fine  ex- 
pressiveness to  me  ;  she  never  told  it  me  but  once,  long 
ago  ;  and  perhaps  we  never  spoke  of  it  again. 

Some  time  in  autumn  1800  (I  think)  the  young  Had- 
dington doctor  married  ;  my  wife,  his  first  and  only  child, 
was  born  July  14  (Bastille- day,  as  we  often  called  it) 
1801  ;  64^  years  old  when  she  died.  The  bride  was 
Grace  Welsh  of  Capelgill  (head  of  Moffat  Water  in  An- 
nandale)  ;  her  father  an  opulent  store-farmer  up  there, 
native  of  Nithsdale  ;  her  mother,  a  Baillie  from  Biggar 
region,  already  deceased.  Grace  was  beautiful,  must 
have  been  :  she  continued  what  might  be  called  beauti- 
ful till  the  very  end,  in  or  beyond  her  sixtieth  year.  Her 
Welshes  were  Nithsdale  people  of  good  condition,  though 
beyond  her  grandfather  and  uncles,  big  farmers  in  Thorn- 
hill  Parish  (the  Welshes  of  Morton  Mains  for  I  know  not 
for  what  length  of  time  before,  nor  exactly  what  after, 
only  that  it  ceased  some  thirty  or  perhaps  almost  fifty 
years  ago,  in  a  tragic  kind  of  way)  ;  I  can  learn  nothing 
certain  of  them  from  Rev.  Walter  of  Auchtertool,  nor 
from  his  sister  Maggie  here,  who  are  of  that  genealogy, 
children  of  my  mother-in-law's  brother  John  ;  concern- 
ing whom  perhaps  a  word  afterwards.  When  the  young 
Haddington  doctor  and  his  beautiful  Grace  had  first  made 
acquaintance  I  know  not  ;  probably  on  visits  of  hers  to 
Morton  Mains,  which  is  but  a  short  step  from  Penfillan. 
Acquainted  they  evidently  were,  to  the  degree  of  mu- 
tually saying,  "Be  it  for  life  then  ;  "  and,  I  believe,  were 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  363 

and  continued  deeply  attached  to  one  another.  Sadder 
widow  than  ivy  mother-in-law,  modestly,  delicately,  yet 
discernibly  was,  I  have  seldom  or  never  seen,  and  my 
poor  Jeannie  has  told  me  he  had  great  love  of  her,  though 
obliged  to  keep  it  rather  secret  or  undemonstrative,  being 
well  aware  of  her  too  sensitive,  fanciful,  and  capricious 
ways. 

Mrs.  Welsh  when  I  first  saw  her  (1822,  as  dimly  ap- 
pears) must  have  been  in  the  third  year  of  her  widow- 
hood. I  think,  when  Irving  and  I  entered,  she  was  sit- 
ting in  the  room  with  Benjamin '  and  my  Jane,  but  soon 
went  away.  An  air  of  deep  sadness  lay  on  her,  and  on 
everybody,  except  on  poor  dying  Benjamin,  who  affected 
to  be  very  sprightly,  though  overwhelmed  as  he  must 
have  felt  himself.  His  spirit,  as  I  afterwards  learned 
from  his  niece,  who  did  not  love  him,  or  feel  grateful  to 
him,  was  extraordinary,  in  the  worldly-wise  kind.  Mrs. 
Welsh,  though  beautiful,  a  tall  aquiline  figure,  of  elegant 
carriage  and  air,  was  not  of  an  intellectual  or  specially 
distinguished  physiognomy  ;  and,  in  her  severe  costume 
and  air,  rather  repelled  me  than  otherwise  at  that  time. 
A  day  or  so  after,  next  evening  perhaps,  both  Irving  and 
I  were  in  her  drawing-room,  with  her  daughter  and  her, 
both  very  humane  to  me,  especially  the  former,  which  I 
noticed  with  true  joy  for  the  moment.  I  was  miserably 
ill  in  health  ;  miserable  every  way  more  than  enough,  in 
my  lonely  imprisonment,  such  as  it  was,  which  lasted 
many  years.  The  drawing-room  seemed  to  me  the  finest 
apartment  I  had  ever  sate  or  stood  in ;  in  fact  it  was  a 

'  Brother  of  Dr.  Welsh. 


364  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

room  of  large  and  fine  proportions,  looking  out  on  a  gar- 
den, on  more  gardens  or  garden  walls  and  sprinkling  of 
trees,  across  the  valley  or  plain  of  the  Tyne  (which  lay 
hidden),  house  quite  at  the  back  of  the  town,  facing  to- 
wards Lethington  etc.  the  best  rooms  of  it  ;  and  every- 
where  bearing  stamp  of  the  late  owner's  solid  temper. 
Clean,  all  of  it,  as  spring  water  ;  solid  and  correct  as  well 
as  pertinently  ornamented  ;  in  the  drawing-room,  on  the 
tables  there,  perhaps  rather  a  superfluity  of  elegant  whim- 
whams.  The  summer  twilight,  I  remember,  was  pouring 
in  rich  and  soft  ;  I  felt  as  one  walking  transiently  in  upper 
spheres,  where  I  had  little  right  even  to  make  transit.  Ah 
me  !  they  did  not  know  of  its  former  tenants  when  I  went 
to  the  house  again  in  April  last.  I  remember  our  all 
sitting,  another  evening,  in  a  little  parlor  off  the  dining- 
room  (downstairs),  and  talking  a  long  time  ;  Irving 
mainly,  and  bringing  out  me,  the  two  ladies  benevolently 
listening  with  not  much  of  speech,  but  the  younger  with 
a  lively  apprehension  of  all  meanings  and  shades  of  mean- 
ing. Above  this  parlour  I  used  to  sleep,  in  my  visits  in 
after  years,  while  the  house  was  still  unsold.  Mrs.  W. 
left  it  at  once,  autumn  1826,  the  instant  her  Jeannie  had 
gone  with  me  ;  went  to  Templand,  Nithsdale,  to  her 
father;  and  turned  out  to  have  decided  never  to  behold 
Haddington  more. 

She  was  of  a  most  generous,  honourable,  affectionate 
turn  of  mind  ;  had  consummate  skill  in  administering  a 
household  ;  a  goodish  well-tending  intellect — something 
of  real  drollery  in  it,  from  which  my  Jeannie,  I  thought, 
might  have  inherited  that  beautiful  lambency  and  bril- 


k  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  365 

liancy  of  soft  genial  humour,  which  illuminated  her  per- 
ceptions and  discoursings  so  often  to  a  singular  degree, 
like  pure  soft  morning  radiance  falling  upon  a  perfect 
picture,  true  to  the  facts.  Indeed,  I  once  said,  "  Your 
mother,  my  dean  has  narrowly  missed  being  a  woman  of 
genius."  Which  doubtless  was  reported  by  and  by  in  a 
quizzical  manner,  and  received  with  pleasure.  For  the 
rest,  Mrs.  W. ,  as  above  said,  was  far  too  sensitive  ;  her 
beauty,  too,  had  brought  flatteries,  conceits  perhaps ;  she 
was  very  variable  of  humour,  flew  off  or  on  upon  slight 
reasons,  and,  as  already  said,  was  not  easy  to  live  with 
for  one  wiser  than  herself,  though  very  easy  for  one  more 
foolish,  if  especially  a  touch  of  hypocrisy  and  perfect  ad- 
miration were  superadded.  The  married  life  at  Hadding- 
ton, I  always  understood,  was  loyal  and  happy,  sunnier 
than  most,  but  it  was  so  by  the  husband's  softly  and 
steadily  taking  the  command,  I  fancy,  and  knowing  how 
to  keep  it  in  a  silent  and  noble  manner.  Old  PenfiUan  (I 
have  heard  the  three  aunts  say)  reported  once,  on  return- 
ing from  a  visit  at  Haddington,  "  He  had  seen  her  one 
evening  in  fifteen  different  humours  "  as  the  night  wore 
on.  This,  probably,  was  in  his  own  youngish  years  (as 
well  as  hers  and  his  son's),  and  might  have  a  good  deal  of 
satirical  exaggeration  in  it.  She  was  the  most  exemplary 
nurse  to  her  husband's  brother  William,  and  to  other  of 
the  Penfillan  sons  who  were  brought  there  for  help  or 
furtherance.  William's  stay  lasted  five  years,  three  of 
them  involving  two  hours  daily  upon  the  spring  deal  (a 
stout  elastic  plank  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet  long,  on  which 
the  weak  patient  gets  himself  shaken  and  secures  exer- 


366  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

cisc),  she  herself,  day  after  day,  doing  the  part  of  tranip- 
ler,  which  perhaps  was  judged  useful  or  as  good  as 
necessary  for  her  own  health.  William  was  not  in  all 
points  a  patient  one  could  not  have  quarrelled  with,  and 
my  mother-in-law's  quiet  obedience  I  cannot  reckon 
other  than  exemplary — even  supposing  it  was  partly  for 
her  own  health  too.  This  I  suppose  was  actually  the 
case  ;  she  had  much  weak  health,  more  and  more  towards 
the  end  of  life.  Her  husband  had  often  signally  helped 
her  by  his  skill  and  zeal  ;  once,  for  six  months  long,  he, 
and  visibly  he  alone,  had  been  the  means  of  keeping  her 
alive.  It  was  a  bad  inflammation  or  other  disorder  of  the 
liver  ;  liver  disorder  was  cured  but  power  of  digestion 
had  ceased.  Doctors  from  Edinburgh  etc.  unanimously 
gave  her  up,  food  of  no  kind  would  stay  a  moment  on 
the  stomach,  what  can  any  mortal  of  us  do  ?  Husband 
persisted,  found  food  that  would  stay  (arrowroot  perfectly 
pure  ;  if  by  chance,  your  pure  stock  being  out,  you  tried 
shop  arrowroot,  the  least  of  starch  in  it  declared  it  futile), 
for  six  months  kept  her  alive  and  gathering  strength  on 
those  terms,  till  she  rose  again  to  her  feet.  "  He  much 
loved  her,"  said  my  Jeannie,  "  but  none  could  less  love 
what  of  follies  she  had  ;  not  a  few,  though  none  of  them 
deep  at  all,  the  good  and  even  noble  soul !  How  sadly  I 
remember  now,  and  often  before  now,  the  time  when  she 
vanished  from  her  kind  Jane's  sight  and  mine,  never 
more  to  meet  us  in  this  world.  It  must  have  been  in 
autumn  1841  ;  she  had  attended  Jane  down  from  Temp- 
land'  to  Dumfries,  probably  I  was  up  from  Scotsbrig 
'  House  in  Nithsdale,  where  Mrs.  Welsh's  father  lived. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  367 

(but  don't  remember)  ;  I  was,  at  any  rate,  to  conduct  my 
wife  to  Scotsbrig  that  night,  and  on  the  morrow  or  so, 
thence  for  London.  Mrs.  W.  was  unusually  beautiful, 
but  strangely  sad  too,  eyes  bright,  and  as  if  with  many 
tears  behind  them.  Her  daughter  too  was  sad,  so  was  I 
at  the  sadness  of  both,  and  at  the  evidently  boundless 
feeling  of  affection  which  knew  not  how  to  be  kind 
enough.  Into  shops  etc.  for  last  gifts  and  later  than 
last ;  at  length  we  had  got  all  done  and  withdrew  to 
sister  Jean's  to  order  the  gig  and  go.  She  went  with  us 
still,  but  feeling  what  would  now  be  the  kindest,  heroi- 
cally rose  (still  not  weeping)  and  said  Adieu  there.  We 
watched  her,  sorrowful  both  of  us,  from  the  end  window, 
stepping,  tall  and  graceful,  feather  in  bonnet  etc.,  down 
Lochmaben  gate,  casting  no  glance  back,  then  vanishing 
to  rightward,  into  High  Street  (bonnet  feather  perhaps, 
the  last  thing),  and  she  was  gone  for  ever.  Ay  de  mi ! 
Ay  de  mi  !  What  a  thing  is  life,  bounded  thus  by  death, 
I  do  not  think  we  ever  spoke  of  this,  but  how  could  either 
of  us  ever  forget  it  at  all  ? 

Old  Walter  Welsh,  my  wife's  maternal  grandfather,  I 
had  seen  twice  or  thrice  at  Templand  before  our  marriage, 
and  for  the  next  six  or  seven  years,  especially  after  our 
removal  to  Craigenputtoch,  he  Avas  naturally  a  principal 
figure  in  our  small  circle.  He  liked  his  granddaughter 
cordially  well,  she  had  been  much  about  him  on  visits 
and  so  forth,  from  her  early  childhood,  a  bright  merry 
little  grig,  always  pleasant  in  the  troubled  atmosphere  of 
the  old  grandfather.  "  Pen  "  (Penfillan  Jeannie,  for  there 
was  another)  he  used  to    call  her  to  the  last ;  mother's 


368  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

name  in  the  family  was  "  Grizzie "  (Grace).  A  perfect 
true  affection  ran  through  all  branches,  my  poor  little 
"  Pen  "  well  included  and  returning  it  well.  She  was 
very  fond  of  old  Walter  (as  he  privately  was  of  her)  and 
got  a  great  deal  of  affectionate  amusement  out  of  him. 
Me,  too,  he  found  nmch  to  like  in,  though  practically  we 
discorded  commonly  on  two  points  :  i'^,  that  I  did  and 
would  smoke  tobacco  ;  2°,  that  I  could  not  and  would 
not  drink  with  any  freedom,  whisky  punch,  or  other 
liquid  stimulants,  a  thing  breathing  the  utmost  poltroon- 
ery in  some  section  of  one's  mind,  thought  Walter  always. 
He  for  himself  cared  nothing  about  drink,  but  had  the 
rooted  idea  (common  in  his  old  circles)  that  it  belonged  in 
some  indissoluble  way  to  good  fellowship.  We  used  to 
presently  knit  up  the  peace  again,  but  tiffs  of  reproach 
from  him  on  this  score  would  always  arise  from  time  to 
time  and  had  always  to  be  laughed  away  by  me,  which 
was  very  easy,  for  I  really  liked  old  Walter  heartily,  and 
he  was  a  continual  genial  study  to  mc  over  and  above  ; 
microcosm  of  old  Scottish  life  as  it  had  been,  and  man  of 
much  singularity  and  real  worth  of  character,  and  even  of 
intellect  too  if  you  saw  well.  He  abounded  in  contrasts; 
glaring  oppositions,  contradictions,  you  would  have  said 
in  every  element  of  him,  yet  all  springing  from  a  single 
centre  (you  might  observe)  and  honestly  uniting  them- 
selves there.  No  better-natured  man  (sympathy,  social- 
ity, honest  loving-kindness  towards  all  innocent  people), 
and  yet  of  men  I  have  hardly  seen  one  of  hotter,  more 
impatient  temper.  Sudden  vehement  breaking  out  into 
fierce    flashes    of  lightning    when    you    touched  him  the 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  369 

wrong  way.  Yet  they  were  flashes  only,  never  bolts,  and 
were  gone  again  in  a  moment,  and  the  fine  old  face  beam- 
ing quietly  on  you  as  before.  Face  uncommonly  fine, 
serious,  yet  laughing  eyes,  as  if  inviting  you  in,  bushy 
eyebrows,  face  which  you  might  have  called  picturesquely 
shaggy,  under  its  plenty  of  grey  hair,  beard  itself  imper- 
fectly shaved  here  and  there  ;  features  massive  yet  soft 
(almost  with  a  tendency  to  pendulous  or  flabby  in  parts) 
and  nothing  but  honesty,  quick  ingenuity,  kindliness,  and 
frank  manhood  as  the  general  expression.  He  was  a  most 
simple  man,  of  stunted  utterance,  burred  with  his  r  and 
had  a  chewing  kind  of  way  with  his  words,  which,  rapid 
and  few,  seemed  to  be  forcing  their  way  through  laziness 
or  phlegm,  and  were  not  extremely  distinct  till  you  at- 
tended a  little  (and  then,  aided  by  the  face,  etc.,  they 
were  extremely  and  memorably  brave,  old  Walter's  words, 
so  true  too,  as  honest  almost  as  my  own  father's,  though 
in  a  strain  so  different).  Clever  things  Walter  never  said 
or  attempted  to  say,  not  wise  things  either  in  any  shape 
beyond  that  of  sincerely  accepted  commonplace,  but  he 
very  well  knew  when  such  were  said  by  others  and 
glanced  with  a  bright  look  on  them,  a  bright  dimpling 
chuckle  sometimes  (smudge  of  laughter,  the  Scotch  call 
it,  one  of  the  prettiest  words  and  ditto  things),  and  on  the 
whole  hated  no  kind  of  talk  but  the  unwise  kind.  He  was 
serious,  pensive,  not  more,  or  sad,  in  those  old  times.  He 
had  the  prettiest  laugh  (once  or  at  most  twice,  in  my 
presence)  that  I  can  remember  to  have  seen,  not  the 
loudest,  my  own  father's  still  rarer  laugh  was  louder  far, 

though  perhaps  not  more  complete,  but  his  was  all  of 
24 


0/ 


O  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 


artillcry-tluinder,/t-«  dc  joie  from  all  guns  as  the  main  ele- 
ment, while  in  Walter's  there  was  audible  something  as  of 
infinite  flutes  and  harps,  as  if  the  vanquished  themselves 
were  invited  or  compelled  to  partake  in  the  triumph.  I 
remember  one  such  laugh  (quite  forget  about  what),  and 
how  the  old  face  looked  suddenly  so  beautiful  and  young 
again.  "Radiant  ever  young  Apollo"  etc.  of  Teufels- 
drockh's  laugh  is  a  reminiscence  of  that.  Now  when  1 
think  of  it,  Walter  must  have  had  an  immense  fund  of  in- 
articulate gaiety  in  his  composition,  a  truly  fine  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  (excellent  sense  in  a  man,  especially  if  he 
never  cultivate  it,  or  be  conscious  of  it,  as  was  Walter's 
case)  ;  and  it  must  have  been  from  him  that  my  Jane  de- 
rived that  beautiful  light  of  humour,  never  going  into 
folly,  yet  full  of  tacit  fun,  which  spontaneously  illumin- 
ated all  her  best  hours.  Thanks  to  Walter,  she  was  of 
him  in  this  respect  ;  my  father's  laugh,  too,  is  mainly 
mine,  a  grimmer  and  inferior  kind  ;  of  my  mother's  beau- 
tifully sportive  vein,  which  w^as  a  thii'd  kind,  also  heredi- 
tary I  am  told,  I  seem  to  have  inherited  less,  though  not 
nothing  either,  nay,  perhaps  at  bottom  not  even  less,  had 
my  life  chanced  to  be  easier  or  joyfuller.  "  Sense  of  the 
ridiculous  "  (worth  calling  such  ;  i.e.  "  brotherly  sympathy 
with  the  downward  side  "  is  withal  very  indispensable  to 
a  man  ;  Hebrews  have  it  not,  hardly  any  Jew  creature, 
not  even  blackguard  Heine,  to  any  real  length — hence 
various  misqualities  of  theirs,  perhaps  most  of  their  quali- 
ties, too,  which  have  become  historical.  This  is  an  old 
remark  of  mine,  though  not  yet  written  anywhere. 

Walter  had  been  a  buck  in  his  youth,  a  high-prancing 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  371 

horseman  etc.;  I  forget  what  image  there  was  of  him,  in 
buckskins,  pipe  hair-dressings,  grand  equipments,  riding 
somewhither  (with  Jolin  Welsh  of  Penfillan  I  almost  think  ?) 
bright  air  image,   from  some   transient  discourse  I  need 
not  say  of  whom.      He  had  married  a  good  and  beautiful 
Miss   Baillie   (of  whom   already)   and  settled  with  her  at 
Capclgill,  in  the  Moffat  region,  where  all  his  children  were 
born,  and  left  with  him  young,  the   mother  having  died, 
still  in  the  flower  of  her  age,  ever  tenderly  remembered 
by  Walter  to  his  last  day  (as  was  well  understood,  though 
mention  was  avoided).     From  her  my  Jeannie  was  called 
"Jane   Baillie  Welsh  "  at  the   time  of  our  marriage,  but 
after  a  good  few  years,  when  she  took  to  signing  "  Jane 
Welsh    Carlyle,"    in    which    I     never   hindered    her,    she 
dropped  the  "  Baillie,"  I   suppose  as  too  long.     I   have 
heard  her  quiz  about  the  "  unfortunate  Miss  Baillie  "  of 
the  song  at  a  still  earlier  time.     Whether  Grace  Welsh 
was  married  from  Capclgill  I  do  not  know.     Walter  had 
been   altogether  prosperous   in  Capclgill,  and  all    of  the 
family  that  I  knew  (John  a  merchant  in  Liverpool,  the  one 
remaining  of  the  sons,  and  Jeannie  the  one  other  daughter, 
a  beautiful  "  Aunt  Jeannie  "  of  whom  a  word  by  and  by) 
continued  warmly  attached  to  it  as  their  real  home  in  this 
earth,  but  at  the  renewal  of  leases  (i8oi  or  so)  had  lost  it 
in  a  quite  provoking  way.      By  the  treachery  of  a  so-called 
friend  namely  ;  friend  a  neighbouring  farmer  perhaps,  but 
with  an  inferior  farm,  came   to  advise  with.  Walter  about 
rents,  probably  his  own  rent  first,  in  this  general  time  of 
leasing.      "I   am  thinking  to   offer  so-and-so,   what  say 
you  ?  what  are  you  going  to  offer  by  the  by  ?  "     Walter, 


^j2  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

the  very  soul  of  fidelity  himself,  made  no  scruple  to  an- 
swer, found  by  and  by  that  this  precious  individual  had 
thereupon  liimsclf  gone  and  offered  for  Capelgill  the  re- 
quisite few  pounds  more,  and  that,  according  to  fixed 
customs  of  the  estate,  he  and  not  Walter,  was  declared 
tenant  of  Capelgill  henceforth.  Disdain  of  such  scandalous 
conduct,  astonishment  and  quasi-horror  at  it,  could  have 
been  stronger  in  few  men  than  in  Walter,  a  feeling  shared 
in  heartily  and  irrevocably  by  all  the  family,  who,  for  the 
rest,  seldom  spoke  of  it,  or  hardly  ever,  in  my  time,  and 
did  not  seem  to  hate  the  man  at  all,  but  to  have  cut  him 
off  as  non-extant  and  left  him  unmentioned.  Perhaps 
some  Welsh  he  too,  of  a  different  stock?  There  were 
Moffat  country  Welshes,  I  observed,  with  whom  they 
rather  eagerly  (John  of  Liverpool  eagerly)  disclaimed  all 
kinship,  but  it  might  be  on  other  grounds.  This  individ- 
ual's name  I  never  once  heard,  nor  was  the  story  touched 
upon  except  by  rare  chance  and  in  the  lightest  way. 

After  Capelgill,  Walter  had  no  more  farming  prosper- 
ity;  I  believe  he  was  unskilful  in  the  arable  kind  of  busi- 
ness, certainly  he  was  unlucky,  shifted  about  to  various 
places  (all  in  Nithsdale,  and  I  think  on  a  smaller  and 
smaller  scale,  Castlchill  in  Durisdeer,  Strathmilligan  in 
Tynron,  ultimately  Templand),  and  had  gradually  lost 
nearly  all  his  capital,  which  at  one  time  was  of  an  opulent 
extent  (actual  number  of  thousands  quite  unknown  to  me) 
and  felt  himself  becoming  old  and  frail,  and  as  it  were 
thrown  out  of  the  game.  His  family  meanwhile  had  been 
scattered  abroad,  seeking  their  various  fortune  ;  son  John 
to  Liverpool  (where  he  had  one  or  perhaps  more  uncles 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  373 

of  mercantile  distinction),  son  William  to  the  West  Indies 
(?)  and  to  early  death,  whom  I  often  heard  lamented  by 
my  mother-in-law  ;  these  and  possibly  others  who  were 
not  known  to  me.  John,  by  this  time  had,  recovering 
out  of  one  bit  of  very  bad  luck,  got  into  a  solid  way  of 
business,  and  was,  he  alone  of  the  brothers,  capable  of 
helping  his  father  a  little  on  the  pecuniary  side.  Right 
willing  to  do  it,  to  the  utmost  of  his  power  or  farther.  A 
most  munificent,  affectionate,  and  nobly  honourable  kind 
of  man,  much  esteemed  by  both  Jane  and  me,  foreign  as 
his  way  of  life  was  to  us. 

Besides  these  there  was  the  youngest  daughter,  now  a 
woman  of  thirty  or  so,  the  excellent  "  Aunt  Jeannie,"  so 
lovable  to  both  of  us,  who  was  said  to  resemble  her 
mother  ("  nearly  as  beautiful  all  but  the  golden  hair," — 
Jeannie's  was  fine  flaxen,  complexion  of  the  fairest),  who 
had  watched  over  and  waited  on  her  father,  through  all 
his  vicissitudes,  and  everywhere  kept  a  comfortable,  fru- 
gally effective  and  even  elegant  house  round  him,  and  in 
fact  let  no  wind  visit  him  too  roughly.  She  was  a  beauti- 
fully patient,  ingenious,  and  practically  thoughtful  crea- 
ture, always  cheerful  of  face,  suppressing  herself  and  her 
sorrows,  of  which  I  understood  there  had  been  enough, 
in  order  to  screen  her  father,  and  make  life  still  soft  to 
him.  By  aid  of  John,  perhaps  slightly  of  my  mother-in- 
law,  the  little  farm  of  Templand  (Queensberry  farm,  with 
a  strong  but  gaunt  and  inconvenient  old  stone  house  on 
it)  was  leased  and  equipped  for  the  old  man.  House 
thoroughly  repaired,  garden  etc.,  that  he  might  still  feel 
himself  an  active  citizen,  and  have  a  civilised  habitation  in 


374  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

his  weak  years.     Nothing  could  be  neater,  trimmer,  in  all 
essential  particulars  more  complete  than  house  and  envi- 
ronment, under  Aunt  Jeannie's  fine  managing,  had  in  a 
year  or  two    grown    to  be.      P'^ine    sheltered,  beautifully 
useful    garden    in    front,  with    trellises,  flower- work,  and 
stripe  of  the  cleanest  river  shingle   between  porch  and  it. 
House   all   clean   and  complete  like  a  new  coin,  steadily 
kept  dry  (by  industry),  bedroom  and  every  part ;  old  fur- 
niture (of  Capelgill)  really  interesting  to  the  eye,  as  well 
as  perfect  for  its   duties.      Dairy,  kitchen,  etc.,    nothing 
that  was  fairly  needful  or  useful  could  you  find  to  be  want- 
ing ;  the  whole  had  the  air,  to  a  visitor  like  myself,  as  of 
a   rustic   idyll   (the  seamy  side  of  it  all  strictly  hidden  by 
clever  Aunt  Jeannie  ;  I  think  she  must  have  been,  what  I 
often  heard,  one  of  the  best  housekeepers  in  the  world.) 
Dear,  good  little    beauty  ;  it   appears    too,  she   had   met 
with   her   tragedies  in   life  ;    one  ^tragedy  hardest  of  all 
upon  a  woman,  betrothed  lover  flying  off  into  infamous 
treason,  not  against  her  specially,  but  against  her  brother 
and  his  own  honour  and  conscience  (brother's  partner  he 
was,  if  I    recollect  rightly,  and  fled   with    all  the  funds, 
leaving  12,000/.  of  minus),  which  annihilated  him  for  her, 
and  closed  her  poor  heart  against  hopes  of  that  kind  at 
an  early  period  of  her  life.      Much  lying  on  her  mind,  I 
always  understood,  while  she  was  so  cheery,  diligent  and 
helpful  to  everybody  round  her.     I  forget,  or  never  knew, 
what  time  they  had  come  to  Templand,  but  guess  it  may 
have  been  in  1822  or  shortly  after  ;  dates  of  Castlehill  and 
Strathmilligan   I  never  knew,  even  order  of  dates;  last 
summer  I  could  so  easily  have  known   (deaf-and-dumb 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  375 

"  Mr.  Turner,"  an  old  Stratlimilligan  acquaintance,  recog- 
nised by  her  in  the  Dumfries  Railway  Station,  and  made 
to  speak  by  paper  and  pencil,  I  writing  for  her  because  she 
could  not).  Oh  me,  oh  me  !  where  is  now  that  summer 
evening,  so  beautiful,  so  infinitely  sad  and  strange  !  The 
train  rolled  off  with  her  to  Thornhill  [Holmhillj  and  that 
too,  with  its  setting  sun,  is  gone.  I  almost  think  Duris- 
deer  (Castlehill)  must  have  been  last  before  Templand  ; 
I  remember  passing  that  quaint  old  kirk  (with  village  hid- 
den) on  my  left  one.  April  evening,  on  the  top  of  a  Dum- 
fries coach  from  Edinburgh,  with  reveries  and  pensive  re- 
flections which  must  have  belonged  to  1822  or  1823. 
Once,  long  after,  on  one  of  our  London  visits,  I  drove 
thither  sitting  by  her,  in  an  afternoon  and  saw  the  gypsy 
village  for  the  first  time,  and  looked  in  with  her  at  the  fine 
Italian  sculptures  on  the  Queensberry  tomb  through  a  gap 
in  the  old  kirk  wall.  Again  a  pensive  evening,  now  so 
beautiful  and  sad. 

From  childhood  upwards  she  seemed  to  have  been 
much  about  these  homes  of  old  Walter,  summer  visits  al- 
most yearly,  and  after  her  father's  death,  like  to  be  of 
longer  continuance.  They  must  have  been  a  quiet,  wel- 
come, and  right  wholesome  element  for  her  young  heart 
and  vividly  growing  mind  ;  beautiful  simplicity  and  rural 
Scottish  nature  in  its  very  finest  form,  frugal,  elegant, 
true  and  kindly;  simplex  mnnditiis  nowhere  more  de- 
scriptive both  for  men  and  things.  To  myself,  summon- 
ing  up  what  I  experienced  of  them,  there  was  a  real  gain 
from  them  as  well  as  pleasure.  Rough  nature  I  knew 
well  already,  or  perhaps  too  well,  but  here  it  was  reduced 


3-6  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

to  cosmic,  and  had  a  victorious  character  which  was  new 
and  grateful  to  me,  well  nigh  poetical.  The  old  Norse 
kings,  the  Homeric  grazier  sovereigns  of  men,  I  have  felt, 
in  reading  of  them  as  if  their  ways  had  a  kinship  with 
these  (unsung)  Nithsdale  ones.  Poor  "Aunt  Jeannie " 
sickened  visibly  the  summer  after  our  marriage  (summer 
1827),  while  we  were  there  on  visit.  My  own  little 
Jeannie,  whom  nothing  could  escape  that  she  had  the  in- 
terest to  fix  her  lynx-eyed  scrutiny  upon,  discovered  just 
before  our  leaving,  that  her  dear  aunt  was  dangerously 
ill,  and  indeed  had  long  been — a  cancer — tumour  now 
evidently  cancerous,  growing  on  her  breast  for  twelve 
years  past,  which,  after  effort,  she  at  last  made  the  poor 
aunt  confess  to.  We  were  all  (I  myself  by  sympathy,  had 
there  been  nothing  more)  thrown  into  consternation,  made 
the  matter  known  at  Liverpool  etc.,  to  everybody  but  old 
Walter,  and  had  no  need  to  insist  on  immediate  steps 
being  taken.  My  mother-in-law  was  an  inmate  there, 
and  probably  in  chief  command  (had  moved  thither, 
quitting  Haddington  for  good,  directly  on  our  marriage) ; 
she  at  once  took  measures,  having  indeed  a  turn  herself 
for  medicining  and  some  skill  withal.  That  autumn  Aunt 
Jeannie  and  she  came  to  Edinburgh,  had  a  furnished 
house  close  by  us,  in  Comley  Bank,  and  there  the  dismal 
operation  was  performed,  successfully  the  doctors  all  said; 
but  alas  !  Dim  sorrow  rests  on  those  weeks  to  me.  Aunt 
Jeannie  showed  her  old  heroism,  and  my  wife  herself 
strove  to  hope,  but  it  was  painful,  oppressive,  sad  ;  twice 
or  so  I  recollect  being  in  the  sick-room,  and  the  pale  yet 
smiling  face,  more  excitation  in  the  eyes  than  usual  ;  one 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  377 

of  the  times  she  was  giving  us  the  earnest  counsel  (my 
Jane  having  been  consulting),  "  to  go  to  London,  clearly, 
if  I  could — if  they  would  give  me  the  professorship  there." 
(Some  professorship  in  Gower  Street,  perhaps  of  Litera- 
ture, which  I  had  hoped  vaguely,  not  strongly  at  all,  nor 
ever  formally  declaring  myself,  through  Jeffrey,  from  his 
friend  Brougham  and  consorts,  which  they  were  kind 
enough  to  dispose  of  otherwise).  My  own  poor  little 
Jeannie  !  my  poor  pair  of  kind  little  Jeannies !  Poor 
Templand  Jeannie  went  home  again,  striving  to  hope,  but 
sickened  in  winter,  worsened  when  the  spring  came,  and 
summer  1838  was  still  some  weeks  off  when  she  had  de- 
parted. It  must  have  been  in  April  or  March  of  1828, 
The  funeral  at  Crawfurd  I  remember  sadly  well  ;  old 
Walter,  John  and  two  sons  (Walter  of  Auchtertool,  and 
Alick  now  successor  in  Liverpool),  with  various  old  Mof- 
fat people  etc.  etc.  at  the  inn  at  Crawfurd  ;  pass  of  Dal- 
veen  with  Dr.  Russell  in  the  dark  (holding  candles, 
both  of  us,  inside  the  chaise),  and  old  Walter's  silent  sor- 
row and  my  own  as  we  sat  together  in  the  vacant  parlour 
after  getting  home.  "  Hah,  we'll  no  see  her  nae  mair  !  " 
murmured  the  old  man,  and  that  was  all  I  heard  from  him, 
I  think. 

Old  Walter  now  fell  entirely  to  the  care  of  daughter 
"  Grizzie,"  who  was  unweariedly  attentive  to  him,  a  most 
affectionate  daughter,  an  excellent  housewife  too,  and  had 
money  enough  to  support  herself  and  him  in  their  quiet, 
neat  and  frugal  way.  Templand  continued  in  all  points 
as  trim  and  beautiful  as  ever  ;  the  old  man  made  no  kind 
of  complaint,  and  in  economics  there  was  even  an  improve- 


37^  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

mcnt.  But  the  old  cheery  patience  of  daughter  "  Jean- 
nie,"  magnanimously  effacing  herself,  and  returning  all  his 
little  spirits  of  smoke  in  the  form  of  lambent  kindly  flame 
and  radiant  light  upon  him,  was  no  longer  there  ;  and  we 
did  not  doubt  but  he  sometimes  felt  the  change.  Temp- 
land  has  a  very  fine  situation  ;  old  Walter's  walk,  at 
the  south  end  of  the  house,  was  one  of  the  most  pictur- 
esque and  pretty  to  be  found  in  the  world.  Nith  valley 
(river  half  a  mile  off,  winding  through  green  holms,  now 
in  its  borders  of  clean  shingle,  now  lost  in  pleasant  woods 
and  rushes)  lay  patent  to  the  S.,  the  country  sinking  per- 
haps 100  feet  rather  suddenly  ;  just  beyond  Templand, 
Kier,  Penpont,  Tynron  lying  spread,  across  the  river,  all 
as  in  a  map,  full  of  cheerful  habitations,  gentlemen's  man- 
sions, well-cultivated  farms  and  their  cottages  and  append- 
ages ;  spreading  up  in  irregufar  slopes  and  gorges  against 
the  finest  range  of  hills,  Barjarg  with  its  trees  and  mansion 
atop,  to  your  left  hand  Tynron  Down,  a  grand  massive 
lowland  mountain  (you  might  call  it)  with  its  white  village 
at  the  base  (behind  which  in  summer  time  was  the  setting 
of  the  sun  for  you)  ;  one  big  pass  (Glen-shinnel,  with  the 
clearest  river-water  I  ever  saw  out  of  Cumberland)  bisect- 
ing this  expanse  of  heights,  and  leading  you  by  the  Clove 
("cloven?")  of  Maxwellton,  into  Glencairn  valley,  and 
over  the  Black  Craig  of  Dunscore  (Dun-scoir=  Black  hill) 
and  to  Craigenputtoch  if  you  chose.  Westward  of  Tynron 
rose  Drumlanrig  Castle  and  woods,  and  the  view,  if  you 
quite  turned  your  back  to  Dumfries,  ended  in  the  Lothers, 
J^eadhills,  and  other  lofty  mountains,  watershed  and  bound- 
ary of  Lanarkshire  and  Dumfriesshire,  rugged,  beautifully 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  379 

piled  sierra,  winding  round  into  the  eastern  heights  (very- 
pretty  too)  which  part  Annandale  from  Nithsdale.  [Alas, 
what  is  the  use  of  all  this,  here  and  now  ?J  Closeburn, 
mansion,  woods,  greeneries,  backed  by  brown  steep 
masses,  was  on  the  southeastern  side,  house  etc.  hiding  it 
from  Walter's  walk.  Walk  where  you  liked,  the  view  you 
could  reckon  unsurpassable,  not  the  least  needing  to  be 
"  surpassed."  Walter's  walk  special  (it  never  had  any 
name  of  that  kind  ;  but  from  the  garden  he  glided  mostly 
into  it,  in  fine  days,  a  small  green  seat  at  each  end  of  it, 
and  a  small  ditto  gate,  easy  to  open  and  shut)  was  not 
above  150  yards  long  ;  but  he  sauntered  and  walked  in  it 
as  fancy  bade  him  (not  with  an  eye  to  "  regimen,"  except 
so  far  as  "  fancy"  herself  might  unconsciously  point  that 
way)  ;  took  his  newspapers  (Liverpool  sent  by  John)  to 
read  there  in  the  sunny  seasons,  or  sat,  silent,  but  with  a 
quietly  alert  look,  contemplating  the  glorious  panorama  of 
"  sky-covered  earth"  in  that  part,  and  mildly  reaping  his 
poor  bit  of  harvest  from  it  without  needing  to  pay  rent ! 
We  went  over  often  from  Craigenputtoch  :  were  al- 
ways a  most  welcome  arrival,  surprise  oftenest,  and  our 
bits  of  visits,  which  could  never  be  prolonged,  were  uni- 
formly pleasant  on  both  sides.  One  of  our  chief  pleasures, 
I  think  almost  our  chief,  during  those  moorland  years. 
Oh  those  pleasant  gig-drives,  in  fine  leafy  twilight,  or 
deep  in  the  night  sometimes,  ourselves  two  alone  in  the 
world,  the  good  "  Larry  "  faring  us  (rather  too  light  for 
the  job,  but  always  soft  and  willing),  how  they  rise  on  me 
now,  benignantly  luminous  from  the  bosom  of  the  grim 
dead  night  !     Night !  what  would  I  give  for  one,  the  very 


3S0  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

worst  of  them,  at  this  moment  !  Once  we  had  gone  to 
Dumfries,  in  a  soft  misty  December  day  (for  a  portrait 
which  my  darHng  wanted,  not  of  herself!);  a  brido-e  was 
found  broken  as  we  went  down,  brook  unsafe  by  ni"-ht ; 
we  had  to  try  "  Ckiden  (Lower  Cairn)  Water"  road,  as 
all  was  mist  and  pitch-darkness,  on  our  return,  road  un- 
known except  in  general,  and  drive  like  no  other  in  my 
memory.  Cairn  hoarsely  roaring  on  the  left  (my  darling's 
side);  "Larry,"  with  but  one  lamp-candle  (for  we  had 
put  out  the  other,  lest  both  might  fall  done),  bending 
always  to  be  straight  in  the  light  of  that ;  I  really  anxious, 
though  speaking  only  hopefully  ;  my  darling  so  full  of 
trust  in  me,  really  happy  and  opulently  interested  in  these 
equipments  ;  in  these  poor  and  dangerous  circumstances 
how  opulent  is  a  nobly  royal  heart !  She  had  the  worth- 
less "portrait"  (pencil  sketch  by  a  wandering  German, 
announced  to  us  by  poor  and  hospitable  Mrs.  Richardson, 
once  a  "  novelist"  of  mark,  much  of  a  gentlewoman  and 
well  loved  by  us  both)  safe  in  her  reticule  ;  "  better  far 
than  none,"  she  cheerfully  said  of  it,  and  the  price,  I  think, 
had  been  55.,  fruit  of  her  thrift  too: — well,  could  Cali- 
fornia have  made  me  and  her  so  rich,  had  I  known  it 
(sorry  gloomy  mortal)  just  as  she  did  ?  To  noble  hearts 
such  wealth  is  there  in  poverty  itself,  and  impossible  with- 
out poverty !  I  saw  ahead,  high  in  the  mist,  the  mina- 
rets of  Dunscore  Kirk,  at  last,  glad  sight;  at  Mrs. 
Broatch's  cosy  rough  inn,  we  got  "  Larry"  fed,  ourselves 
dried  and  refreshed  (still  seven  miles  to  do,  but  road  all 
plain) ;  and  got  home  safe,  after  a  pleasant  day,  in  spite 
of  all.     Then  the  drive  to  Boreland  once  (George  Welsh's, 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  38 1 

"Uncle  George,"  youngest  of  the  Penfillans) ;  heart  of 
winter,  intense  cahii  frost,  and  through  Dumfries,  at  least 
35  miles  for  poor  "  Larry  "  and  us;  very  beautiful  that 
too,  and  very  strange,  past  the  base  of  towering  New 
Abbey,  huge  ruins,  piercing  grandly  into  the  silent  frosty 
sunset,  on  this  hand,  despicable  cowhouse  of  Presbyterian 
kirk  on  that  hand  (sad  new  contrast  to  Devorgilla's  old 
bounty)  etc.  etc.  : — of  our  drive  home  again  I  recollect 
only  her  invincible  contentment,  and  the  poor  old  cotter 
woman  offering  to  warm  us  with  a  flame  of  dry  broom, 
"  A'U  licht  a  bruim  couev,  if  ye'U  please  to  come  in!" 
Another  time  we  had  gone  to  "  Dumfries  Cattle  Show  " 
(first  of  its  race,  which  are  many  since) ;  a  kind  of  lark  on 
our  part,  and  really  entertaining,  though  the  day  proved 
shockingly  wet  and  muddy ;  saw  various  notabilities 
there.  Sir  James  Grahame  (baddish,  proud  man,  we  both 
thought  by  physiognomy,  and  did  not  afterwards  alter 
our  opinion  much),  Ramsay  Macculloch  (in  sky-blue  coat, 
shiningly  on  visit  from  London)  etc.  etc.,  with  none  of 
whom,  or  few,  had  we  right  (or  wish)  to  speak,  abun- 
dantly occupied  with  seeing  so  many  fine  specimens, 
biped  and  quadruped.  In  afternoon  we  suddenly  deter- 
mined to  take  Templand  for  the  night  (nearer  by  some 
miles,  and  weather  still  so  wet  and  muddy)  ;  and  did  so, 
with  the  best  success,  a  right  glad  surprise  there.  Poor 
Huskisson  had  perished  near  Liverpool,  in  first  trial 
of  the  railway,  I  think,  the  very  day  before  ;  at  any  rate 
we  heard  the  news,  or  at  least  the  full  particulars  there, 
the  tragedy  (spectacular  mostly,  but  not  quite,  or  inhu- 
manly in  any  sense)  of  our  bright  glad  evening  there. 


3S2  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

The  Liverpool  children  first,  then  "  Uncle  John  "  him- 
self far  a  fortnight  or  so,  used  to  come  every  summer,  and 
stir  up  Templand's  quietude  to  us  bystanders  in  a  purely 
agreeable  way.  Of  the  children  I  recollect  nothing 
almost ;  nothing  that  was  not  cheerful  and  auroral  matu- 
tinal. The  two  boys,  Walter  and  Alick,  came  once  on 
visit  to  us,  perhaps  oftener,  but  once  I  recollect  their  lying 
quiet  in  iheir  big  bed  till  eleven  A.M.,  with  exemplary 
politeness,  for  fear  of  awakening  me  who  had  been  up  for 
two  hours,  though  everybody  had  forgotten  to  announce 
it  to  them.  We  ran  across  to  Templand  rather  oftener 
than  usual  on  these  occasions,  and  I  suppose  stayed  a 
shorter  time. 

My  Jeannie  had  a  great  love  and  regard  for  her 
"  Uncle  John,"  whose  faults  she  knew  well  enough,  but 
knew  to  be  of  the  surface  all,  while  his  worth  of  many  fine 
kinds  ran  in  the  blood,  and  never  once  failed  to  shov/  in 
the  conduct  when  called  for.  He  had  all  his  father's 
veracity,  integrity,  abhorrence  of  dishonourable  behaviour  ; 
was  kind,  munificent,  frank,  and  had  more  that  his  father's 
impetuosity,  vehemence,  and  violence,  or  perhaps  was 
only  more  provoked  (in  his  way  of  life),  to  exhibit  these 
qualities  now  and  then.  He  was  cheerful,  musical, 
politely  conversible  ;  truly  a  genial  harmonious,  loving 
nature  ;  but  there  was  a  roar  in  him  too  like  a  lion's. 
He  had  had  great  misfortunes  and  provocations  ;  his  way 
of  life,  in  dusty,  sooty,  ever  noisy  Liverpool,  with  its  din- 
nerings,  wine-drinkings,  dull  evening  parties  issuing  in 
whist,  was  not  his  element,  i'ew  men's  less,  though  he 
made    not   the  least  complaint  of  it  (even  to  himself,  I 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  383 

think)  :  but  his  heart,  and  all  his  pleasant  memories  and 
thoughts,  were  in  the  breezy  hills  of  Moffatdale,  with  the 
rustic  natives  there,  and  their  shepherdings,  huntings 
(brock  and  fox),  and  solitary  fishings  in  the  clear  streams. 
It  was  beautiful  to  see  how  he  made  some  pilgriming  into 
those  or  the  kindred  localities ;  never  failed  to  search  out 
all  his  father's  old  herdsmen  (with  a  sovereign  or  two  for 
each,  punctual  as  fate)  ;  and  had  a  few  days'  fishing  as 
one  item.  He  had  got  his  schooling  at  Closeburn  ;  was, 
if  not  very  learned,  a  very  intelligent  enquiring  kind  of 
man  ;  could  talk  to  you  instructively  about  all  manner  of 
practical  things  ;  and  loved  to  talk  with  the  intelligent, 
though  nearly  all  his  life  was  doomed  to  pass  itself  with 
the  stupid  or  commonplace  sort,  who  were  intent  upon 
nothing  but  "getting  on,"  and  giving  dinners  or  getting 
them.  Rarely  did  he  burst  out  into  brief  fiery  recognition 
of  all  this  ;  j'ct  once  at  least,  before  my  time,  I  heard  of 
his  doing  so  in  his  own  drawing-room,  with  brevity,  but 
with  memorable  emphasis  and  fury.  He  was  studiously 
polite  in  general,  always  so  to  those  who  deserved  it,  not 
quite  always  to  those  who  did  not. 

His  demeanour  in  his  bankruptcy,  his  and  his  wife's 
(who  for  the  rest,  though  a  worthy  well-intending,  was 
little  of  an  amiable  woman),  when  the  villain  of  a  partner 
eloped,  and  left  him  possessor  of  a  minus  12,000/.,  with 
other  still  painfuller  items  (sister  Jeannie's  incurable  heart, 
for  example)  was  admitted  to  be  beautiful.  Creditors  had 
been  handsome  and  gentle,  aware  how  the  case  stood  ; 
household  with  all  its  properties  and  ornaments  left  intact, 
etc.     Wife' rigorously  locked  all  her  plate  away  ;  husband 


384  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

laboriously  looked  out  for  a  new  course  of  business  ;  in- 
o-cniously  found  or  created  one,  prospered  in  it,  saving 
every  penny  possible ;  thus,  after  perhaps  seven  or  eight 
years,  had  a  great  dinner  :  all  the  plate  out  again,  all  the 
creditors  there,  and  under  every  man's  cover  punctual 
sum  due,  payment  complete  to  every  creditor;  "  Pocket 
your  cheques,  gentlemen,  with  our  poor  warmest  thanks, 
and  let  us  drink  better  luck  for  time  coming  !  "  He  pros- 
pered always  afterwards,  but  never  saved  much  money, 
too  hospitable,  far  too  open-handed,  for  that ;  all  his  din- 
ners, ever  since  I  knew  him,  were  given  (never  dined  out, 
he),  and  in  more  than  one  instance,  to  our  knowledge, 
ruined  people  were  lifted  up  by  him  (one  widow  cousin, 
one  orphan,  youngest  daughter  of  an  acquaintance  e.  g.) 
as  if  they  had  been  his  own  ;  sank  possibly  enough  mainly 
or  altogether  into  his  hands,  and  were  triumphantly  (with 
patience  and  in  silence)  brought  through.  No  wonder 
my  darling  liked  this  uncle,  nor  had  I  the  least  difficulty 
in  liking  him. 

Once  I  remember  mounting  early,  almost  with  the 
sun  (a  kind  hand  expediting,  perhaps  sending  me),  to 
breakfast  at  Templand,  and  spend  the  day  with  him  there. 
I  rode  by  the  shoulder  of  the  Black  Craig  (Dunscore  Hill), 
might  see  Dumfries  with  its  cap  of  early  kitchen-smoke, 
all  shrunk  to  the  size  of  one's  hat,  though  there  were 
11,000  souls  in  it,  far  away  to  the  right ;  descended  then 
by  Cairn,  by  the  Clove  of  Maxwellton  (where  at  length 
came  roads),  through  fragrant  grassy  or  bushy  solitudes  ; 
at  the  Bridge  of  Shinnel,  looked  down  into  the  pellucid 
glassy  pool,  rushing  through  its  rock  chasms,  and  at  a 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  385 

young  peasant  woman,  pulling  potatoes  by  the  brink, 
chubby  infant  at  her  knee — one  of  the  finest  mornings, 
one  of  the  pleasantest  rides  ;  and  arrived  at  Templand  in 
good  time  and  trim  for  my  hosts.  The  day  I  forget ; 
would  be  spent  wholesomely  wandering  about,  in  rational 
talk  on  indifferent  matters.  Another  time,  long  after,  new 
from  London  then,  I  had  wandered  out  with  him,  his  two 
pretty  daughters,  and  a  poor  good  cousin  called  Robert 
Macqueen  attending.  We  gradually  strolled  into  Crichop 
Linn  (a  strange  high-lying  chasmy  place,  near  Closeburn) ; 
there  pausing,  well  aloft,  and  shaded  from  the  noon  sun, 
the  two  girls,  with  their  father  for  octave  accompaniment, 
sang  us  "The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy  "  so  as  I  have  seldom 
heard  a  song  ;  voices  excellent  and  true,  especially  his 
voice  and  native  expression  given  ;  which  stirred  my  poor 
London-fevered  heart  almost  to  tears.  One  earlier  visit 
from  London,  I  had  driven  up,  latish,  from  Dumfries,  to 
see  my  own  little  woman  who  was  there  among  them  all. 
No  wink  could  I  sleep;  at  length  about  three  A.M.,  re- 
flecting how  miserable  I  should  be  all  day,  and  cause  only 
misery  to  the  others,  I  (with  leave  had)  rose,  yoked  my 
gig,  and  drove  away  the  road  I  had  come.  Morning 
cold  and  surly,  all  mortals  still  quiet,  except  unhappy 
self;  I  remember  seeing  towards  Auldgarth,  within  a  few 
yards  of  my  road,  a  vigilant  industrious  heron,  mid-leg 
deep  in  the  Nith-stream,  diligently  fishing,  dabbing  its 
long  bill  and  hungry  eyes  down  into  the  rushing  water 
(tail  up  stream),  and  paying  no  regard  to  my  wheels  or 
me.  The  only  time  I  ever  saw  a  hernshaw  ("  herrin'- 
shouw  "  the  Annandalers  call  it)  actually  fishing.  Ccetera 
25 


3S6  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

dcsunt ;  of  Dumfries,  of  the  day  there,  and  its  sequences, 
all  trace  is  gone.  It  must  have  been  soon  after  French 
Revolution  Book ;  nerves  all  inflamed  and  torn  up,  body 
and  mind  in  a  most  hag-ridden  condition  (too  much  their 
normal  one  those  many  London  years). 

Of  visits  from  Tcmpland  there  were  not  so  many  ; 
but  my  darling  (hampered  and  gyved  as  we  were  by  the 
genuis  loci  and  its  difficulties)  always  triumphantly  made 
them  do.  She  had  the  genius  of  a  field-marshal,  not  to 
be  taken  by  surprise,  or  weight  of  odds,  in  these  cases  1 
Oh,  my  beautiful  little  guardian  spirit  !  Twice  at  least 
there  was  visit  from  Uncle  John  in  person  and  the  Liver- 
pool strangers,  escorted  by  mother  ;  my  mother,  too,  was 
there  one  of  the  times.  Warning  I  suppose  had  been 
given  ;  night-quarters  etc.  all  arranged.  Uncle  John  and 
boys  went  down  to  Orr  Water,  I  attending  without  rod, 
to  fish.  Tramping  about  on  the  mossy  brink,  uncle  and 
I  awoke  an  adder  ;  we  had  just  passed  its  underground 
hole  ;  alarm  rose,  looking  round,  we  saw  the  vile  sooty- 
looking  fatal  abominable  wretch,  towering  up  above  a 
yard  high  (the  only  time  I  ever  saw  an  adder) ;  one  of  the 
boys  snatched  a  stray  branch,  hurried  up  from  behind, 
and  with  a  good  hearty  switch  or  two,  broke  the  creature's 
back. 

Another  of  these  dinner  days,  I  was  in  the  throes  of  a 
review  article  ("  Characteristics,"  was  it?)  and  could  not 
attend  the  sport;  but  sauntered  about,  much  on  the  strain, 
to  small  purpose  ;  dinner  all  the  time  that  I  could  afford. 
Smoking  outside  at  the  dining-room  window,  "  Is  not 
every  day  the  conflux  of  two  eternities,"  thought  I,  "for 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  387 

every  man  ?  "  Lines  of  influence  from  all  the  past  and 
stretching  onwards  into  all  the  future,  do  intersect  there. 
That  little  thoughtkin  stands  in  some  of  my  books  ;  I 
recollect  being  thankful  (scraggily  thankful)  for  the  day 
of  small  things. 

We  must  have  gone  to  Craigenputtoch  early  in  May 
1828.  ■  I  remember  passing  our  furniture  carts  (my  fa- 
ther's carts  from  Scotsbrig,  conducted  by  my  two  farm- 
ing brothers)  somewhere  about  Elvanfoot,  as  the  coach 
brought  us  two  along.  I  don't  remember  our  going  up 
to  Craigenputtoch  (a  day  or  two  after),  but  do  well  re- 
member what  a  bewildering  heap  it  all  was  for  some  time 
after. 

Geraldine's  Craigenputtoch  stories  are  more  mythical 
than  any  of  the  rest.  Each  consists  of  two  or  three,  in 
confused  exaggerated  state,  rolled  with  new  confusion 
into  one,  and  given  wholly  to  her,  when  perhaps  they 
■were  mainly  some  servant's  in  whom  she  was  concerned. 
That  of  the  kitchen  door,  which  could  not  be  closed  again 
on  the  snowy  morning,  etc.,  that  is  a  fact  very  visible 
to  me  yet ;  and  how  I,  coming  down  for  a  light  to  my 
pipe,  found  Grace  Macdonald  (our  Edinburgh  servant, 
and  a  most  clever  and  complete  one)  in  tears  and  despair, 
with  a  stupid  farm-servant  endeavouring  vainly  by  main 
force  to  pull  the  door  to,  which,  as  it  had  a  frame  round 
it,  sill  and  all,  for  keeping  out  the  wind,  could  not  be 
shut  except  by  somebody  from  within  (me,  e.g.)  who 
would  first  clear  out  the  snow  at  the  sill,  and  then,  with 
his  best  speed,  shut  ;  which  I  easily  did.  The  washing 
of    the    kitchen    floor   etc.    (of  which    I   can    remember 


3SS  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

nothing)  must  have  been  years  distant,  under  some  quite 
other  servant,  and  was  probably  as  much  of  a  joyous  half- 
froUc  as  of  anything  else.  I  can  remember  very  well  her 
coming  in  to  me,  late  at  night  (eleven  or  so),  with  her 
first  loaf,  looking  mere  triumph  and  quizzical  gaiet}'  : 
"  See  ! ''  The  loaf  was  excellent,  only  the  crust  a  little 
burnt ;  and  she  compared  herself  to  Cellini  and  his  Per- 
seus, of  whom  we  had  been  reading.  From  that  hour 
we  never  wanted  excellent  bread.  In  fact,  the  saving 
charm  of  her  life  at  Craiggenputtoch,  which  to  another 
young  lady  of  her  years  might  have  been  so  gloomy  and 
vacant,  was  that  of  conquering  the  innumerable  practical 
problems  that  had  arisen  for  her  there  ;  all  of  which,  I 
think  all,  she  triumphantly  mastered.  Dairy,  poultry- 
yard,  piggery  ;  I  remember  one  exquisite  pig,  which  we 
called  Fixie  ("  Quintus  Fixlein  "  of  Jean  Paul),  and  such 
a  little  ham  of  it  as  could  not  be  equalled.  Her  cow  gave 
twenty-four  quarts  of  milk  daily  in  the  two  or  three  best 
months  of  summer  ;  and  such  cream,  and  such  butter 
(though  oh,  she  had  such  a  problem  with  that  ;  owing  to 
a  bitter  herb  among  the  grass,  not  known  of  till  long  after 
by  my  heroic  darling,  and  she  triumphed  over  that,  too)  ! 
That  of  milking  with  her  own  little  hand,  I  think,  could 
never  have  been  necessary,  even  by  accident  (plenty  of 
milkmaids  within  call),  and  I  conclude  must  have  had  a 
spice  of  frolic  or  adventure  in  it,  for  which  she  had  abun- 
dant spirit.  Perfection  of  housekeeping  was  her  clear  and 
speedy  attainment  in  that  new  scene.  Strange  how  she 
made  the  desert  blossom  for  herself  and  me  there  ;  what 
a  fairy  palace  she  had  made  of  that  wild  moorland  home 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  389 

of  the  poor  man  !  In  my  life  I  have  seen  no  human  intel- 
hgence  that  so  genuinely  pervaded  every  fibre  of  the 
human  existence  it  belonged  to.  From  the  baking  of  a 
loaf,  or  the  darning  of  a  stocking,  up  to  comporting  her- 
self in  the  highest  scenes  or  most  intricate  emergencies, 
all  was  insight,  veracity,  graceful  success  (if  you  could 
judge  it),  fidelity  to  insight  of  the  fact  given. 

We  had  trouble  with  servants,  with  many  paltry  ele- 
ments and  objects,  and  were  very  poor  ;  but  I  do  not 
think  our  days  there  were  sad,  and  certainly  not  hers. in 
especial,  but  mine  rather.  We  read  together  at  night, 
one  winter,  through  "  Don  Quixote "  in  the  original  ; 
Tasso  in  ditto  had  come  before  ;  but  that  did  not  last 
very  long.  I  was  diligently  writing  and  reading  there  ; 
wrote  most  of  the  "Miscellanies"  there,  for  Foreign, 
Edinburgh,  etc.  Reviews  (obliged  to  keep  several  strings 
to  my  bow),  and  took  serious  thought  about  every  part 
of  every  one  of  them.  After  finishing  an  article,  we  used 
to  get  on  horseback,  or  mount  into  our  soft  old  gig,  and 
drive  away,  either  to  her  mother's  (Templand,  fourteen 
miles  oft),  or  to  my  father  and  mother's  (Scotsbrig,  seven 
or  sixand-thirty  miles);  the  pleasantest  journeys  I  ever 
made,  and  the  pleasantest  visits.  Stay  perhaps  three 
days  ;  hardly  ever  more  than  four  ;  then  back  to  work 
and  silence.  My  father  she  particularly  loved,  and  recog- 
nised all  the  grand  rude  worth  and  immense  originality 
that  lay  in  him.  Her  demeanour  at  Scotsbrig,  throughout 
in  fact,  was  like  herself,  unsurpassable  ;  and  took  captive 
all  those  true  souls,  from  oldest  to  youngest,  who  by 
habit  and  type  might  have  been  so  utterly  foreign  to  her. 


390  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

Al  Tcmpland  or  there,  our  presence  always  made  a  sun- 
shiny time.  To  Templand  we  sometimes  rode  on  an 
evening,  to  return  next  day  early  enough  for  something  of 
work  ;  this  was  charming  generally.  Once  I  remember 
we  had  come  by  Barjarg,  not  by  Auldgarth  (Bridge),  and 
were  riding,  the  Nith  then  in  flood,  from  Penfillan  or  Pcn- 
pont  neighbourhood;  she  "was  fearlessly  following  or  ac- 
companying me.;  and  there  remained  only  one  little  arm 
to  cross,  which  did  look  a  thought  uglier,  but  gave  me  no 
disturbance,  when  a  farmer  figure  was  seen  on  the  farther 
bank  or  fields,  earnestly  waving  and  signalling  (could  not 
be  heard  for  the  floods)  ;  but  for  whom  we  should  surely 
have  had  some  accident,  who  knows  how  bad  !  Never 
rode  that  water  again,  at  least  never  in  flood,  I  am  sure. 

We  were  not  unhappy  at  Craigenputtoch  ;  perhaps 
these  were  our  happiest  days.  Useful,  continual  labour, 
essentially  successful ;  that  makes  even  the  moor  green. 
I  found  I  could  do  fully  twice  as  much  work  in  a  given 
time  there,  as  with  my  best  effort  was  possible  in  London, 
such  the  interruptions  etc.  Once,  in  the  winter  time,  I 
remember  counting  that  for  three  months,  there  had  not 
been  any  stranger,  not  even  a  beggar,  called  at  Craigen- 
puttoch door.  In  summer  we  had  sparsely  visitors,  now 
and  then  her  mother,  or  my  own,  once  my  father  ;  who 
never  before  had  been  so  far  from  his  birthplace  as  when 
here  (and  yet  "  knew  the  world  "  as  few  of  his  time  did, 
so  well  had  he  looked  at  what  he  did  see)  !  At  Auld- 
garth Brig,  which  he  had  assisted  to  build  when  a  lad 
of  fifteen,  and  which  was  the  beginning  of  all  good  to 
him,  and  to  all   his  brothers  (and    to    me),  his   emotion, 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  391 

after  fifty-five  years,  was  described  to  me  as  strong,  con- 
spicuous and  silent.  He  delighted  us,  especially  her,  at 
Craigenputtoch,  himself  evidently  thinking  of  his  latter 
end,  in  a  most  intense,  awe-stricken,  but  also  quiet  and 
altogether  human  way.  Since  my  sister  Margaret's 
death  he  had  been  steadily  sinking  in  strength,  though 
we  did  not  then  notice  it.  On  August  12  (for  the 
grouse's  sake)  Robert  Welsh,  her  unele,  was  pretty  cer- 
tain to  be  there,  with  a  tag-raggery  of  Dumfries  Writers, 
dogs,  etc.  etc.,  whom,  though  we  liked  him  very  well, 
even  I,  and  much  more  she,  who  had  to  provide,  find 
beds,  etc.,  felt  to  be  a  nuisance.  I  got  at  last  into  the 
way  of  riding  off,  for  some  visit  or  the  like,  on  August 
12,  and  unless  "  Uncle  Robert  "  came  in  person,  she  also 
would  answer,  "  not  at  home." 

An  interesting  relation  to  Goethe  had  likewise  begun 
in  Comley  Bank  first,  and  now  went  on  increasing  ; 
"  boxes  from  Weimar"  (and  "  to,"  at  least  once  or  twice) 
were  from  time  to  time  a  most  sunny  event ;  I  remember 
her  making  for  Ottilie  a  beautiful  Highland  bonnet 
(bright  blue  velvet,  with  silvered  thistle  etc.),  which  gave 
plenty  of  pleasure  on  both  hands.  The  sketch  of  Craig- 
enputtoch '  was  taken  by  G.  Moir,  advocate  (ultimately 
sheriff,  professor,  etc.,  "little  Geordie  Moir "  as  we 
called  him),  who  was  once  and  no  more  with  us.  The 
visit  of  Emerson  from  .Concord,  and  our  quiet  night  of 
clear  fine  talk,  was  also  very  pretty  to  both  of  us.  The 
Jeffreys    came    twice,   expressly,   and    once    we    went    to 

'  Sent  to  Goethe,  and  engraved  under  Goethe's  direction  for  the  German 
translation  of  Carlyle's  Life  of  Schiller. 


392  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

Dumfries  by  appointment  to  meet  them  in  passing. 
Their  correspondence  was  there  a  steadily  enhvening 
clement.  One  of  the  visits  (I  forget  whether  first  or  last, 
but  from  Hazlitt,  London,  there  came  to  Jeffrey  a  death- 
bed letter  one  of  the  days,  and  instead  of  "  lo/.,"  50/. 
went  by  return)  ;  Jeffrey,  one  of  the  nights,  young  laird 
of  Stroquhan  present,  was,  what  with  mimicry  of  speakers, 
what  with  other  cleverness  and  sprightliness,  the  most 
brilliantly  amusing  creature  I  have  ever  chanced  to  see. 
One  time  we  went  to  Craigcrook,  and  returned  their  visit, 
and,  as  I  can  now  see,  stayed  at  least  a  week  too  long. 
His  health  was  beginning  to  break;  he  and  I  had,  nightly, 
long  arguments  (far  too  frank  and  equal  on  my  side,  I 
can  now  see  with  penitence)  about  moral  matters,  perhaps 
till  two  or  three  A.M.  He  was  a  most  gifted,  prompt, 
ingenious  little  man  (essentially  a  dramatic  genius,  say  a 
melodious  Goldoni  or  more,  but  made  into  a  Scotch  ad- 
vocate and  Whig) ;  never  a  deeply  serious  man.  He 
discovered  here,  I  think,  that  I  could  not  be  "  convtirted,'' 
and  that  I  was  of  thoughtlessly  rugged  rustic  ways,  and 
faultily  irreverent  of  him  (which,  alas,  I  was).  The  cor- 
respondence became  mainly  hers  by  degrees,  but  was,  for 
years  after,  a  cheerful,  lively  element,  in  spite  of  Reform 
Bills  and  officialities  (ruinous  to  poor  Jeffrey's  health  and 
comfort)  which,  before  long,  supervened.  We  were  at 
Haddington  on  that  Craigcrook  occasion,  stayed  Avith  the 
Donaldsons  at  Sunnybank  {hodie  Tenterfield),  who  were 
her  oldest  and  dearest  friends  (hereditarily  and  otherwise) 
in  that  region.  I  well  remember  the  gloom  of  our  arrival 
back  to  Craigenputtoch,  a  miserable  wet,  windy  Novem- 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  393 

ber  evening',  with  the  yellow  leaves  all  flying  about,  and 
the  sound  of  brother  Alick's  stithy  (who  sometimes 
amused  himself  with  smithwork,  to  small  purpose),  clink, 
clinking  solitary  through  the  blustering  element.  I  said 
nothing,  far  was  she  from  ever,  in  the  like  case,  saying 
anything.  Indeed  I  think  we  at  once  re-adjusted  our- 
selves, and  went  on  diligently  with  the  old  degree  of  in- 
dustry and  satisfaction. 

"  Old  Esther,"  whose  death  came  one  of  our  early 
winters,  was  a  bit  of  memorability  in  that  altogether 
vacant  scene.  I  forget  the  old  woman's  surname  (per- 
haps M ' George  ?),  but  well  recall  her  lumpish  heavy 
figure  (lame  of  a  foot),  and  her  honest,  quiet,  not  stupid 
countenance  of  mixed  ugliness  and  stoicism.  She  lived 
about  a  mile  from  us  in  a  poor  cottage  of  the  next  farm 
(Corson's,  of  Nether  Craigenputtoch  ;  very  stupid  young 
brother,  now  minister  in  Ayrshire,  used  to  come  and 
bore  me  at  rare  intervals) ;  Esther  had  been  a  laird's 
daughter  riding  her  palfrey  at  one  time,  but  had  gone  to 
wreck,  father  and  self — a  special  "misfortune"  (so  they 
delicately  name  it),  being  of  Esther's  own  producing. 
"Misfortune"  in  the  shape  ultimately  of  a  solid  tall 
ditcher,  very  good  to  his  old  mother  Esther  ;  had,  just 
before  our  coming,  perished  miserably  one  night  on  the 
shoulder  of  Dunscore  hill  (found  dead  there,  next  morn- 
ing) which  had  driven  his  poor  old  mother  up  to  this 
thriftier  hut,  and  silent  mode  of  living,  in  our  moorland 
part  of  the  parish.  She  did  not  beg,  nor  had  my  Jeannie 
much  to  have  given  her  of  help  (perhaps  on  occasion 
milk,  old  warm  clothes,  etc.),  though  always  very  sorry  for 


394  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

her  last  sad  bereavement  of  the  stalwart  affectionate  son, 
I  remember  one  frosty  kind  of  forenoon,  while  walking 
meditative  to  the  top  of  our  hill  (now  a  mass  of  bare  or 
moorland  whinstone  crag,  once  a  woody  wilderness,  with 
woody  mountain  in  the  middle  of  it,  "  Craigenputtick,  or 
the  stone  mountain,"  "  Craig"  of  the  "  Puttick,"  puttick 
being  a  sort  of  hawk,  both  in  Galloway  speech  and  in 
Shakespeare's  old  English  ;  "  Hill  forest  of  the  Putticks," 
now  a  very  bare  place),  the  universal  silence  was  com- 
plete, all  but  one  click-clack,  heard  regularly  like  a  far- 
off  spondee  or  iambus  rather,  "  click-clack,"  at  regular 
intervals,  a  great  way  to  my  right.  No  other  sound  in 
nature ;  on  looking  sharply  I  discovered  it  to  be  old 
Esther  on  the  highway,  crippling  along  towards  our  house 
most  probably.  Poor  old  soul,  thought  I,  what  a  desola- 
tion !  but  you  will  meet  a  kind  face  too,  perhaps  !  heaven 
is  over  all. 

Not  long  afterwards,  poor  old  Esther  sank  to  bed  ; 
death-bed,  as  my  Jane  (who  had  a  quick  and  sure  eye  in 
these  things),  well  judged  it  would  be.  Sickness  did  not 
last  above  a  ten  days  ;  my  poor  wife  zealously  assiduous, 
and  with  a  minimum  of  fuss  or  noise.  I  remember  those 
few  poor  days;  as  full  of  human  interest  to  her  (and 
through  her  to  me),  and  of  a  human  pity,  not  painful,  but 
sweet  and  genuine.  She  went  walking  every  morning, 
especially  every  night,  to  arrange  the  poor  bed  etc. 
(nothing  but  rudish  hands,  rude  though  kind  enough, 
being  about),  the  poor  old  woman  evidently  gratified  by 
it  and  heart-thankful,  and  almost  to  the  very  end  giving 
clear  sign    of   that.       Something   pathetic   in    poor   old 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  395 

Esther  and  her  exit — nay,  if  I  rightly  bethink  mc,  that 
"  chck-clack  "  pilgrimage  had  in  fact  been  a  last  visit  to 
Craigenputtoch  with  some  poor  bit  of  crockery  (small 
grey-lettered  butter-plate,  which  I  used  to  sec)  "as  a 
wee  memorandum  o'  me,  mem,  when  I  am  gane  ! " 
"Memorandum"  was  her  word;  and  I  remember  the 
poor  little  platter  for  years  after.  Poor  old  Esther  had 
awoke,  that  frosty  morning,  with  a  feeling  that  she  would 
soon  die,  that  "  the  bonny  leddy"  had  been  "unco'  guid  *' 
to  her,  and  that  there  was  still  that  "  wee  bit  memoran- 
dum." Nay,  I  think  she  had,  or  had  once  had,  the 
remains,  or  complete  ghost  of  a  "  fine  old  riding-habit," 
once  her  own,  which  the  curious  had  seen  :  but  she  had 
judged  it  more  polite  to  leave  to  the  parish.     Ah  me  ! 

The  gallop  to  Dumfries  and  back  on  "  Larry,"  an 
excellent,  well- paced,  well-broken  loyal  little  horse  of 
hers  (thirteen  hands  or  so,  an  exceeding  favourite,  and 
her  last),  thirty  good  miles  of  swift  canter  at  the  least,  is 
a  fact  which  I  well  remember,  though  from  home  at  the 
moment.  Word  had  come  (to  her  virtually,  or  properly 
perhaps),  that  the  Jefifreys,  three  and  a  servant,  were  to 
be  there,  day  after  to-morrow,  perhaps  to-morrow  itself ; 
I  was  at  Scotsbrig,  nothing  ready  at  all  (and  such  narrow 
means  to  get  ready  anything,  my  darling  heroine  ! )  She 
directly  mounted  "  Larry,"  who  "  seemed  to  know  that 
he  must  gallop,  and  faithfully  did  it ;  "  laid  her  plans 
while  galloping  ;  ordered  everything  at  Dumfries ;  sent 
word  to  me  express  ;  and  galloped  home,  and  stood 
victoriously  prepared  at  all  points  to  receive  the  JeflVe}-s, 
who,  I  think,  were  all  there  on  my  arrival.     The  night  of 


296  JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE. 

her  express  is  to  mc  very  memorable  for  its  own  sake.  I 
had  been  to  Burnswark  (visit  to  good  old  Grahame,  and 
walk  of  three  miles  to  and  three  from) ;  it  was  ten  P.M.  of 
a  most  still  and  fine  night,  when  I  arrived  at  my  father's 
door,  heard  him  making  worship,  and  stood  meditative, 
gratefully,  lovingly,  till  he  had  ended  ;  thinking  to  my- 
self, how  good  and  innocently  beautiful  and  peaceful  on 
the  earth  is  all  this,  and  it  was  the  last  time  I  was  ever  to 
hear  it.  I  must  have  been  there  twice  or  oftener  in  my 
father's  time,  but  the  sound  of  his  pious  Coleshill  (that 
was  always  his  tune),  pious  psalm  and  prayer,  I  never 
heard  again.  With  a  noble  politeness,  very  noble  when 
I  consider,  they  kept  all  that  in  a  fine  kind  of  remote- 
ness from  us,  knovying  (and  somehow  forgiving  us  com- 
pletely), that  we  did  not  think  of  it  quite  as  they.  My 
Jane's  express  would  come  next  morning  ;  and  of  course 
I  made  "  Larry  "  ply  his  hoofs. 

The  second  ride,  in  Geraldine,  is  nearly  altogether 
mythical,  being  in  reality  a  ride  from  Dumfries  to  Scots- 
brig  (two  and  a  half  miles  beyond  "  Ecclefech^in,"  where 
none  of  us  ever  passed)  with  some  loss  of  road  within  the 
last  five  miles  (wrong  turn  at  Hodden  Brig,  J  guessed), 
darkness  (night-time  in  May),  money  etc.,  and  "terror" 
enough  for  a  commonplace  young  lady,  but  little  or  noth- 
ing of  real  danger,  and  terror  not  an  element  at  all,  I 
fancy,  in  her  courageous  mind.  "Larry,"  I  think,  can- 
not have  been  her  horse  (half-blind  two  years  before  in 
an  epidemic,  through  which  she  nursed  him  fondly,  he 
once  "kissing  her  cheek"  in  gratitude,  she  always 
thought),  or  "Larry"  would  have  known  the  road,  for 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  39/ 

we  had  often  ridden  and  driven  it.     I  was  at  that  time 
gone  to  London,  in  quest  of  houses. 

My  last  considerable  bit  of  writing  at  Craigenputtoch 
was  "  Sartor  Resartus  ;  "  done,  I  think,  between  January 
and  August  1830;  my  sister  Margaret  had  died  while  it 
was  going  on.  I  well  remember  when  and  how  (at  Temp- 
land  one  morning)  the  germ  of  it  rose  above  ground. 
"  Nine  months,"  I  used  to  say,  it  had  cost  me  in  writing. 
Had  the  perpetual  fluctuation,  the  uncertainty  and  unin- 
telligible whimsicality  of  Review  Editors  not  proved  so 
intolerable,  we  might  have  lingered  longer  at  Craigenput- 
toch, "perfectly  left  alone,  and  able  to  do  more  work, 
beyond  doubt,  than  elsewhere."  But  a  book  did  seem  to 
promise  some  respite  from  that,  and  perhaps  further  ad- 
vantages. Teufelsdrockh  was  ready  ;  and  (first  days  of 
August)  I  decided  to  make  for  London.  Night  before 
going,  how  I  still  remember  it !  I  was  lying  on  my  back 
on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room  ;  she  sitting  by  the  table 
(late  at  night,  packing  all  done,  I  suppose)  :  her  words 
had  a  guise  of  sport  but  were  profoundly  plaintive  in 
meaning.  '*  About  to  depart,  who  knows  for  how  long  ; 
and  what  may  have  come  in  the  interim  !  "  this  was  her 
thought,  and  she  was  evidently  much  out  of  spirits. 
"Courage,  dearie,  only  for  a  month!"  I  would  say  to 
her  in  some  form  or  other.  I  went,  next  morning  early, 
Alick  driving  :  embarked  at  Glencaple  Quay  ;  voyage  as 
far  as  Liverpool  still  vivid  to  me  ;  the  rest,  till  arrival  in 
London,  gone  mostly  extinct  :  let  it  !  The  beggarly  his- 
tory of  poor  "  Sartor"  among  the  blockheadisms  is  not 
worth  recording,  or  remembering — least  of  all  here  !     In 


39$  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

short,  finding  that  whereas   I  had  got  lOo/.  (if  memory 
serve)  for  "  Schiller"  six  or  seven  years  before,  and  for 
"  Sartor,"  at  least   thrice  as   good,  I  could   not  only  not 
"get  200/.,"  but  even  get  no  "  Murray"  or  the  like  to 
publish  it  on  "  half  profits  "  (Murray  a  most  stupendous 
object  to  me  ;  tumbling  about,  eyeless,  with  the  evidently 
strong  wish  to  say  "yes  and  no  ;  "   my  first  signal  expe- 
rience of  that  sad  human  predicament)  ;  I  said,  "  We  will 
make  it  no,  then  ;  wrap  up  our  MS.;  wait  till  this  Reform 
Bill    uproar   abate ;  and   see,  and   give    our   brave  little 
Jeannie  a  sight  of  this  big  Babel,  which  is  so  altered  since 
I  saw  it  last  (in    1824-25)!"     She  came  right  willingly, 
and  had  in  spite  of  her  ill-health,  which  did  not  abate  but 
the  contrary,  an  interesting,  cheery,  and,  in  spite  of  our 
poor   arrangements,    really  pleasant    winter   here.       We 
lodged  in  Ampton   Street,   Gray's  Inn  Lane,  clean  and 
decent  pair  of  rooms,  and  quiet  decent  people  (the  daugh- 
ter is  she  whom  Geraldine  speaks  of  as  having,  I  might 
say,  fallen   in  love  with  her,  wanted  to  be  our  servant  at 
Craigenputtoch  etc.),    reduced  from  wealth   to   keeping 
lodgings,  and  prettily  resigned  to  it  ;  really  good  people. 
Visitors  etc.  she  had  in  plenty  ;  John  Mill  one  of  the  most 
interesting,  so    modest  ardent,  ingenuous,  ingenious,  and 
so  very  fond  of  me   at  that  time.     Mrs.  Basil  Montague 
(already  a  correspondent  of  hers)  now  accurately  seen, 
was  another  of  the  distinguished.     Jeffrey,  Lord  Advo- 
cate, often  came  on  an  afternoon  ;  never  could  learn  his 
road  to  and  from  the  end  of  Piccadilly,  though  I  showed 
it  him  again  and  again.     In   the  evening,  miscellany  of 
hers  and  mine,  often  dullish,  had  it  not  been  for  her,  and 


JANE    WELSH    CARLYLE.  399 

the  light  she  had  shed  on  everything.  I  wrote  "Johnson  " 
here  ;  just  before  going.  News  of  my  father's  death  came 
here :  oh,  how  good  and  tender  she  was,  and  consolatory 
by  every  kind  of  art,  in  those  black  days  !  I  remember 
our  walk  along  Holborn  forward  into  the  City,  and  the 
bleeding  mood  I  was  in,  she  wrapping  me  like  the  softest 
of  bandages  : — in  the  City  somewhere,  two  boys  fighting, 
with  a  ring  of  grinning  blackguards  round  them  ;  I  rushed 
passionately  through,  tore  the  fighters  asunder,  with  some 
passionate  rebuke  ("  in  this  world  full  of  death  "),  she  on 
my  arm  ;  and  everybody  silently  complied.  Nothing  was 
wanting  in  her  sympathy,  or  in  the  manner  of  it,  as  even 
from  sincere  people  there  often  is.  How  poor  we  were  ; 
and  yet  how  rich  !  I  remember  once  taking  her  to  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  (ticket  from  Playwright  Kenny  belike) 
along  sloppy  streets,  in  a  November  night  (this  was  be- 
fore my  father's  sudden  death) ;  and  how  paltry  the 
equipment  looked  to  me,  how  perfectly  unobjectionable 
to  her,  who  was  far  above  equipments  and  outer  garni- 
tures. Of  the  theatricality  itself  that  night  I  can  remem- 
ber absolutely  nothing.  Badams,  my  old  Birmingham 
friend  and  physician,  a  most  inventive,  light-hearted,  and 
genially  gallant  kind  of  man,  sadly  eclipsed  within  the  last 
five  years,  ill-married,  plunged  amid  grand  mining  spec- 
ulations (which  were  and  showed  themselves  sound,  but 
not  till  they  had  driven  him  to  drink  brandy  instead  of 
water,  and  next  year  to  die  miserably  overwhelmed). 
Badams  with  his  wife  was  living  out  at  Enfield,  in  a  big 
old  rambling  sherd  of  a  house  among  waste  gardens  ; 
thither  I  twice  or   thrice  went,  much  liking  the  man,  but 


400  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

never  now  getting  any  good  of  him  ;  she  once  for  three 
or  four  days  went  with  me  ;  sorry  enough  days,  had  not 
we,  and  especially  she,  illumined  them  a  little.  Charles 
Lamb  and  his  sister  came  daily  once  or  oftener ;  a  very 
sorry  pair  of  phenomena.  Insuperable  proclivity  to  gin 
in  poor  old  Lamb.  His  talk  contemptibly  small,  indicat- 
ing wondrous  ignorance  and  shallowness,  even  when  it 
was  serious  and  good-mannered,  which  it  seldom  was, 
usually  ill-mannered  (to  a  degree),  screwed  into  frosty 
artificialities,  ghastly  make-believe  of  wit,  in  fact  more 
like  "diluted  insanity"  (as  I  defined  it)  than  anything 
of  real  jocosity,  humour,  or  geniality.  A  most  slender 
fibre  of  actual  worth  in  that  poor  Charles,  abundantly  re- 
cognisable to  me  as  to  others,  in  his  better  times  and 
moods  ;  but  he  was  cockney  to  the  marrow  ;  and  cock- 
neydom,  shouting  "  glorious,  marvellous,  unparalleled  in 
nature  ! "  all  his  days  had  quite  bewildered  his  poor  head, 
and  churned  nearly  all  the  sense  out  of  the  poor  man. 
He  was  the  leanest  of  mankind,  tiny  black  breeches  but- 
toned to  the  knee-cap  and  no  further,  surmounting  spin- 
dle-legs also  in  black,  face  and  head  fineish,  black,  bony, 
lean,  and  of  a  Jew  type  rather  ;  in  the  eyes  a  kind  of 
smoky  brightness  or  confused  sharpness  ;  spoke  with  a 
stutter  ;  in  walking  tottered  and  shuffled  ;  emblem  of  im- 
becility bodily  and  spiritual  (something  of  real  insanity  I 
have  understood),  and  yet  something  too  of  human,  in- 
genuous, pathetic,  sportfully  much  enduring.  Poor 
Lamb  !  he  was  infinitely  astonished  at  my  wife,  and  her 
quiet  encounter  of  his  too  ghastly  London  wit  by  a  cheer- 
ful  native   ditto.     Adieu,    poor   Lamb  !     He   soon    after 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  401 

died,  as  did  Badams,  much  more  to  the  sorrow  of  us 
both.  Badams  at  our  last  parting  (in  Ampton  Street, 
four  or  more  months  after  this)  burst  into  tears.  "  Pressed 
down  hke  putty  under  feet,"  we  heard  him  murmuring, 
"  and  no  strength  more  in  me  to  rise  !  "  We  invited  him 
to  Craigcnputtoch  with  our  best  temptations  next  sum- 
mer, but  it  was  too  late  ;  he  answered,  almost  as  with 
tears,  ''  No,  alas  !  "  and  shortly  died. 

We  had  come  home,  last  days  of  previous  March  : 
wild  journey  by  heavy  coach,  I  outside,  to  Liverpool  ;  to 
Birmingham  it  was  good,  and  inn  there  good,  but  next 
day  (a  Sunday,  I  think)  we  were  quite  overloaded  ;  and 
had  our  adventures,  especially  on  the  street  in  Liverpool, 
rescuing  our  luggage  after  dark.  But  at  Uncle  John's, 
again,  in  Maryland  Street,  all  became  so  bright.  At  mid- 
day, somewhere,  we  dined  pleasantly  tSte-a-tetc,  in  the 
belly  of  the  coach,  from  my  dear  one's  stores  (to  save  ex- 
pense doubtless,  but  the  rest  of  the  day  had  been  un- 
pleasantly chaotic)  even  to  me,  though  from  her,  as  usual, 
there  was  nothing  but  patient  goodness.  Our  dinners  at 
Maryland  Street  I  still  remember,  our  days  generally  as 
plea'sant,  our  departure  in  the  Annan  steamer,  one  bright 
sunshiny  forenoon,  uncle  etc.  zealously  helping  and  es- 
corting ;  sick,  sick  my  poor  woman  must  have  been  ;  but 
she  retired  out  of  sight,  and  would  suffer  with  her  best 
grace  in  silence  : — ah  me,  I  recollect  now  a  tight,  clean 
brandy-barrel  she  had  bought;  to  "  hold  such  quantities 
of  luggage,  and  be  a  water-barrel  for  the  rain  at  Craigcn- 
puttoch !  "  how  touching  to  me  at  this  moment.     And  an 

excellent  water-barrel  it  proved  ;    the  purest  tea  I  ever 
26  % 


402  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

tastctl  made  from  the  rain  it  stored  for  us.  At  Whinniery, 
I  remember,  brother  Ahck  and  others  of  them  were  wait- 
infT  to  receive  us  ;  there  were  tears  among  us  (my  father 
<^one,  when  wc  returned);  she  wept  bitterly,  I  recollect, 
lier  sympathetic  heart  girdled  in  much  sickness  and  dis- 
spiritment  oj"  her  own  withal  ;  but  my  mother  was  very 
kind  and  cordially  good  and  respectful  to  her  always. 
We  returned  in  some  days  to  Craigenputtoch,  and  were 
again  at  peace  there.  Alick,  I  think,  had  by  this  time 
left ;  and  a  new  tenant  was  there  (a  peaceable  but  dull 
stupid  fellow  ;  and  our  summers  and  winters  for  the  future 
(1832-1834)  were  lonelier  than  ever.  Good  servants  too 
were  hardly  procurable  ;  difficult  anywhere,  still  more  so 
at  Craigenputtoch,  where  the  choice  was  so  limited.  How- 
ever, we  pushed  along;  writing  still  brisk;  "Sartor" 
getting  published  in  Fraser,  etc.  etc.  We  had  not  at  first 
any  thought  of  leaving.  And  indeed  would  the  Review 
Editors  but  have  stood  steady  (instead  of  for  ever  change- 
ful), and  domestic  service  gone  on  comfortably,  perhaps 
we  might  have  continued  still  a  good  while.  We  went 
one  winter  (1833  ?  or  2  ?)  to  Edinburgh  ;  the  Jeffreys  ab- 
sent in  official  regions.  A  most  dreary  contemptible  kind 
of  element  wc  found  Edinburgh  to  be  (partly  by  accident, 
or  baddish  behaviour  of  two  individuals,  Dr.  Irving  one 
of  them,  in  reference  to  his  poor  kinswoman's  furnished 
house) ;  a  locality  and  life-element  never  to  be  spoken  of 
in  comparison  with  London,  and  the  frank  friends  there. 
To  London  accordingly,  in  the  course  of  next  winter,  and 
its  new  paltry  experiences  of  house-service  etc.,  we  deter- 
mined to  go.     Edinburgh  must  have  been  in  1833-2  after 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  403 

all  ?  Our  home-coming  I  remember  ;  missed  the  coach  in 
Princes  Street,  waited  perdue  till  following  morning  ; 
bright  weather,  but  my  poor  Jeannie  so  ill  by  the  ride, 
that  she  could  not  drive  from  Thornhill  to  Templand 
(half  a  mile),  but  had  to  go  or  stagger  hanging  on  my 
arm,  and  instantly  took  to  bed  with  one  of  her  terrible 
headaches.  Such  headaches  I  never  witnessed  in  my  life  ; 
agony  of  retching  (never  anything  but  phlegm)  and  of 
spasmodic  writhing,  that  would  last  from  twenty-four  to 
sixty  hours,  never  the  smallest  help  affordable.  Oh,  what 
of  pain,  pain,  my  poor  Jeannie  had  to  bear  in  this  thorny 
pilgrimage  of  life;  the  unwitnessed  heroine,  or  witnessed 
only  by  me,  who  never  till  now  see  it  wholly  ! 

She  was  very  hearty  for  London,  when  I  spoke  of  it, 
though  till  then  her  voice  on  the  subject  had  never  been 
heard.  "  Burn  our  ships  !  "  she  gaily  said,  one  day — i.e. 
dismantle  our  house  ;  carry  all  our  furniture  with  us. 
And  accordingly  here  it  still  is  (mostly  all  of  it  her  father's 
furniture  :  whose  character  of  solidly  noble  is  visibly  writ- 
ten on  it :  "  respect  what  is  truly  made  to  its  purpose  ; 
detest  what  is  falsely,  and  have  no  concern  with  it  !  ")  My 
own  heart  could  not  have  been  more  emphatic  on  that 
subject  ;  honour  to  him  for  its  worth  to  me,  not  as  furni- 
ture alone.  My  writing-table,  solid  mahogany  well-de- 
vised, always  handy,  yet  steady  as  the  rocks,  is  the  best 
I  ever  saw  ;  *•'  no  book  could  be  too  good  for  being  writ- 
ten here,"  it  has  often  mutely  told  me.  His  watch,  com- 
missioned by  him  in  Clerkenwell,  has  measured  my  time 
for  forty  years,  and  would  still  guide  you  to  the  longitude, 
could  anybody  now  take  the  trouble  of  completely  regu- 


404  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

lating  it  (old  Whitelaw  in  Edinburgh,  perhaps  thirty-five 
years  ago,  was  the  hist  that  did).  Repeatedly  have  up- 
holsterers asked,  "  Who  made  these  chairs,  ma'am  ?  "  In 
cockneydom,  nobody  in  our  day;  "unexampled  pros- 
perit}- "  makes  another  kind.  Abhorrence,  quite  equal  to 
my  own,  of  cheap  and  nasty,  I  have  nowhere  seen,  cer- 
tainly nowhere  else  seen  completely  accomplished,  as 
poor  mine  could  never  manage  almost  in  the  least  degree 
to  be.  ]\Iy  pride,  fierce  and  sore  as  it  might  be,  was 
never  hurt  by  that  furniture  of  his  in  the  house  called 
mine  ;  on  the  contrary  my  piety  w^as  touched,  and  ever 
and  anon  have  this  table  etc.  been  a  silent  solemn  sermon 
to  me.  Oh,  shall  not  victory  at  last  be  to  the  handful  of 
brave  ;  in  spite  of  the  rotten  multitudinous  canaille,  who 
seem  to  inherit  all  the  world  and  its  forces  and  steel- 
weapons  and  culinary  and  stage  properties  ?  Courage  ; 
and  be  true  to  one  another  ! 

I  remember  well  my  departure  (middle  of  May,  1834), 
she  staying  to  superintend  packing  and  settling  ;  in  gig, 
I,  for  the  last  time  ;  with  many  thoughts  (forgotten  there) ; 
brother  Alick  voluntarily  waiting  at  Shillahill  Bridge  with 
a  fresh  horse  for  me  ;  night  at  Scotsbrig,  ride  to  Annan 
(through  a  kind  of  May  series  of  slight  showers),  pretty 
breakfast  waiting  us  in  poor  good  Mary's  (ah  me,  how 
strange  is  all  that  now,  "  Mother,  you  shall  see  me  once 
yearly,  and  regularly  hear  from  me,  while  we  live  !  "  etc. 
etc. )  ;  embarkation  at  Annan  foot ;  Ben  Nelson  and  James 
Stuart ;  our  lifting  .  .  .  ,'  and  steaming  off, — my  two  dear 
brothers  (Alick  and  Jamie)  standing  silent,  apart,  feeling 

'  Word  omitted  in  MS. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  405 

I  well  knew  what  -.—self  resolute  enough,  and  striving  (not 
quite  honestly)  to  feel  more  so  !  Ride  to  London,  all  night 
and  all  day  (I  think).  Trades-Union  people  out  proces- 
sioning ("  Help  us;  what  is  your  Reform  Bill  else?" 
thought  they,  and  I  gravely  saluting  one  body  of  thcni,  I 
remember,  and  getting  grave  response  from  the  leader  of 
them).  At  sight  of  London  I  remember  humming  to  my- 
self a  ballad-stanza  of  "  Johnnie  o'  Braidislea  "  which  my 
dear  old  mother  used  to  sing, 

"For  there's  seven  foresters  in  yon  forest ; 
And  them  I  want  to  see,  see, 
And  them  I  want  to  see  (and  shoot  down)  ! 

Lodged  at  Ampton  Street  again  ;  immense  stretches 
of  walking   in    search  of  houses.     Camden  Town  once  ; 

Primrose  Hill  and  its  bright '  population  in  the 

distance  ;  Chelsea  ;  Leigh  Hunt's  huggermugger,  etc.  etc. 
— what  is  the  use  of  recollecting  all  that  ? 

Her  arrival  I  best  of  all  remember  :  ah  me  !  She  was 
clear  for  this  poor  house  (which  she  gradually,  as  poverty 
a  little  withdrew  after  long  years'  pushing,  has  made  so 
beautiful  and  comfortable)  in  preference  to  all  my  other 
samples  :  and  here  we  spent  our  two-and-thirty  years  of 
hard  battle  against  fate  ;  hard  but  not  quite  unvictorious, 
when  she  left  me,  as  in  her  car  of  heaven's  fire.  My  noble 
one  !  I  say  deliberately  her  part  in  the  stern  battle,  and 
except  myself  none  knows  how  stern,  was  brighter  and 
braver  than  my  own.  Thanks,  darling,  for  your  shining 
words  and  acts,  which  were  continual  in  my  eyes,  and  in 

*  Word  omitted  in  MS. 


^q3  jane  welsh  carlyle. 

no  other  mortal's.      Worthless  I  was  your  divinity,  wrapt 
in  your  perpetual  love  of  me  and  pride  in  me,  in  defiance 
of  all  men  and  things.     Oh,  was  it  not  beautiful,  all  this 
that  I  have  lost  forever  !     And  I  was  Thomas  the  Doubt- 
er, the  unhoping;  till  now  the  only  half-believing,  in  my- 
self and    my   priceless   opulences !     At  my  return   from 
Annandale,  after  "  French   Revolution,"  she  so    cheerily 
recounted  to  me  all  the  good  "  items  ;  "  item  after  item. 
"  Oh  it  has  had  a  great  success,  dear  !  "—to  no  purpose  ; 
and  at  length  beautifully  lost  patience  with  me  for  my  in- 
credulous humour.     My  life  has  not  wanted  at  any  time 
what  I  used  to  call  "  desperate  hope  "  to  all  lengths  ;  but 
of  common  "  hoping  hope  "  it  has  had  but  little  ;  and  has 
been  shrouded  since  youthhood  (almost  since  boyhood, 
for   my  school-years,    at   Annan,    were   very   miserable, 
harsh,  barren   and  worse)  in   continual  gloom   and  grim- 
ness,  as  of  a  man  set  too  nakedly  versus  the  devil  and  all 
men.     Could  I  be  easy  to  live  with  ?  She  flickered  round 
me  like  perpetual  radiance,  and  in  spite  of  my  glooms  and 
my  misdoings,  would  at  no  moment  cease  to  love  me  and 
help  me.     What  of  bounty  too  is  in  heaven  1 

We  proceeded  all  through  Belgravc  Square  hither, 
with  our  servant,  our  looser  luggage,  ourselves  and  a  little 
canary  bird  ("  Chico,"  which  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  Craigenputtoch)  one  hackney  coach  rumbling  on 
with  us  all.  Chico,  in  Belgrave  Square,  burst  into  sing- 
ing, which  we  took  as  a  good  omen.  We  were  all  of  us 
striving  to  be  cheerful  (she  needed  no  effort  of  striving) ; 
but  wc  "had  burnt  our  ships,"  and  at  bottom  the  case 
was  grave.     I  do  not  remember  our  arriving  at  this  door, 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  407 

but  I  do  the  cheerful  gipsy  life  we  had  here  among  the 
Htter  and  carpenters  for  three  incipient  days.  Leigh 
Hunt  was  in  the  next  street,  sending  kind  //^practical 
messages  ;  in  the  evenings,  I  think,  personally  coming  in  ; 
we  had  made  acquaintance  with  him  (properly  he  with  us), 
just  before  leaving  in  spring  1832.  Huggermugger  was 
the  type  of  his  economics,  in  all  respects,  financial  and 
other;  but  he  was  himself  a  pretty  man,  in  clean  cotton 
nightgown,  and  with  the  airiest  kindly  style  of  sparkling 
talk,  wanting  only  wisdom  of  a  sound  kind,  and  true  in- 
sight into  fact.     A  great  want ! 

I  remember  going  with  my  dear  one  (and  Eliza  Miles, 
the  "  daughter  "  of  Ampton  Street,  as  escort),  to  some 
dim  ironmonger's  shop,  to  buy  kettles  and  pans  on  the 
thriftiest  of  fair  terms  How  noble  and  more  than  royal 
is  the  look  of  that  to  me  now,  and  of  my  royal  one  then. 
California  is  dross  and  dirt  to  the  experiences  I  have  had. 
A  tinderbox  with  steel  and  flint  was  part  of  our  outfit 
(incredible  as  it  may  seem  at  this  date) ;  I  could  myself 
burn  rags  into  tinder,  and  I  have  groped  my  way  to  the 
kitchen,  in  sleepless  nights,  to  strike  a  light  for  my  pipe 
in  tliat  manner.  Chico  got  a  wife  by  and  by  (oh  the  wit 
there  was  about  that  and  its  sequels),  produced  two  bright 
yellow  young  ones,  who,  as  soon  as  they  were  fledged, 
got  out  into  the  trees  of  the  garden,  and  vanished  towards 
swift  destruction  ;  upon  which,  villain  Chico  finding  his 
poor  wife  fallen  so  tattery  and  ugly,  took  to  pecking  a 
hole  in  her  head,  pecked  it  and  killed  her,  by  and  by  end- 
ing his  own  disreputable  life.  I  had  begun  "  The  French 
Revolution  "  (trees  at  that  time  before  our  window — a  tale 


4o8  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

by  these  too  on  her  part)  :  infinitesimal  little  matters  of 
that  kind  hovered  round  me  like  bright  fire-flies,  irradi- 
ated by  her  light  !  Breakfast  early,  was  in  the  back  part 
of  this  ground-floor  room,  details  of  gradual  intentions 
etc.  as  to  "  French  Revolution,''  advices,  approval  or 
criticism,  always  beautifully  wise,  and  so  soft  and  loving, 
had  they  even  been  foolish  ! 

We  were  not  at  all  unhappy  during  those  three  years 
of  "French  Revolution;"  at  least  she  was  not;  her 
health  perhaps  being  better  than  mine,  which  latter  was 
in  a  strangely  painful,  and  as  if  conflagrated  condition  to- 
wards the  end.  She  had  made  the  house  "  a  little  Eden 
round  her "  (so  neat  and  graceful  in  its  simplicity  and 
thrifty  poverty) ;  "  little  Paradise  round  you,"  those  were 
Edward  Irving's  words  to  her,  on  his  visit  to  us  ;  short 
affectionate  visit,  the  first  and  the  last  (October  1834)  ;  on 
horseback,  just  about  setting  off  for  Glasgow,  where  he 
died  December  following.  I  watched  him  till  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Cook's  Grounds  he  vanished,  and  we  never  saw 
him  more.  Much  consulting  about  him  we  had  always 
had  ;  a  letter  to  Henry  Drummond  (about  delivering  him 
from  the  fools  and  fanatics  that  were  agitating  him  to 
death,  as  I  clearly  saw)  lay  on  the  mantelpiece  here  for 
some  days  in  doubt,  and  was  then  burnt.  Brother,  father, 
rational  friend,  I  could  not  think  of,  except  Henry;  and 
him  I  had  seen  only  once,  not  without  clear  view  of  his 
unsoundness  too.  Practically  we  had  long  ago  had  to 
take  leave  of  poor  Irving,  but  we  both  knew  him  well,  and 
all  his  brotherhoods  to  us  first  and  last,  and  mourned  him 
in  our  hearts  as  a  lost  hero.     Nobler  man  I  have  seen  few 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  409 

if  any,    till   the    foul  gulfs    of   London   pulpit-popularity 
sucked  him  in,  and  tragically  swallowed  him. 

We  were  beginning  to  find  a  friend  or  two  here  ;  that 
is,  an  eligible  acquaintance,  none  as  yet  very  dear  to  us, 
though  several  brought  a  certain  pleasure.  Leigh  Hunt 
was  here  almost  nightly,  three  or  four  times  a  week,  I 
should  reckon  ;  he  came  always  neatly  dressed,  was  thor- 
oughly courteous,  friendly  of  spirit,  and  talked  like  a  sing- 
ing bird.  Good  insight,  plenty  of  a  kind  of  humour  too  ; 
I  remember  little  warbles  in  the  tones  of  his  fine  voice 
which  were  full  of  fun  and  charm.  We  gave  him  Scotch 
porridge  to  supper  ("nothing  in  nature  so  interesting  and 
delightful  ")  ;  she  played  him  Scotch  tunes  ;  a  man  he 
to  understand  and  feel  them  v/ell.  His  talk  was  often 
enough  (perhaps  at  first  oftenest),  literary,  biographical, 
autobiographical,  wandering  into  criticism,  reform  of  soci- 
ety, progress,  etc.  etc.,  on  which  latter  points  he  gradu- 
ally found  me  very  shocking  (I  believe — so  fatal  to  his 
rose-coloured  visions  on  the  subject).  An  innocent-heart- 
ed, but  misguided,  in  fact  rather  foolish,  unpractical  and 
often  nmch  suffering  man.  John  Mill  was  another  steady 
visitor  (had  by  this  time  introduced  his  Mrs.  Taylor  too,  a 
very  will-o'-wispish  "  iridescence"  of  a  creature  ;  meaning 
nothing  bad  either).  She  at  first  considered  my  Jane  to 
be  a  rustic  spirit  fit  for  rather  tutoring  and  twirling  about 
when  the  humour  took  her ;  but  got  taught  better  (to  her 
lasting  memory)  before  long.  Mill  was  very  useful  about 
"  French  Revolution  ;  "  lent  me  all  his  books,  which  were 
quite  a  collection  on  that  subject ;  gave  me,  frankly, 
clearly,  and  with  zeal,  all  his  better  knowledge  than  my 


4IO  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

own  (which  was  pretty  frequently  of  use  in  this  or  the 
other  detail)  ;  being  full  of  eagerness  for  such  an  advocate 
in  that  cause  as  he  felt  I  should  be.  His  evenings  here 
were  sensibly  agreeable  for  most  part.  Talk  rather  win- 
try ("sawdustish,"  as  old  Sterling  once  called  it),  but 
always  well-informed  and  sincere.  The  Mrs.  Taylor  busi- 
ness was  becoming  more  and  more  of  questionable  benefit 
to  him  (we  could  see),  but  on  that  subject  we  were  strictly 
silent,  and  he  was  pretty  still.  For  several  years  he  came 
hither,  and  walked  with  mc  every  Sunday.  Dialogues 
fallen  all  dim,  except  that  they  were  never  in  the  least  ge- 
nial to  me,  and  that  I  took  them  as  one  would  wine  where 
no  nectar  is  to  be  had,  or  even  thin  ale  where  no  wine. 
Her  view  of  him  was  very  kindly,  though  precisely  to  the 
same  effect.  How  well  do  I  still  remember  that  night 
when  he  came  to  tell  us,  pale  as  Hector's  ghost,  that  my 
unfortunate  first  volume  was  burnt.  It  was  like  half  sen- 
tence of  death  to  us  both,  and  we  had  to  pretend  to  take 
it  lightly,  so  dismal  and  ghastly  was  his  horror  at  it,  and 
try  to  talk  of  other  matters.  He  stayed  three  mortal 
hours  or  so  ;  his  departure  quite  a  relief  to  us.  Oh,  the 
burst  of  sympathy  my  poor  darling  then  gave  me,  flinging 
her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  openly  lamenting,  condoling, 
and  encouraging  like  a  nobler  second  self !  Under  heaven 
is  nothing  beautifuller.  We  sat  talking  till  late;  "shall 
be  written  again,"  my  fixed  word  and  resolution  to  her. 
Which  proved  to  be  such  a  task  as  I  never  tried  before  or 
since.  I  wrote  out  "Feast  of  Pikes"  (vol.  ii.),  and  then 
went  at  it.  I^^ound  it  fairly  impossible  for  about  a  fort- 
night ;  passed    three  weeks    (reading  Marryat's    novels), 


JANE   WELSH  CARLYLE.  41I 

tried,  cautious-cautiously,  as  on  ice  paper-thin,  once 
more  ;  and  in  short  had  a  job  more  like  breaking  my 
heart  than  any  other  in  my  experience.  Jeannie,  alone 
of  beings,  burnt  like  a  steady  lamp  beside  me.  I  forget 
how  much  of  money  we  still  had.  I  think  there  was  at 
first  something  like  300/.,  perhaps  280/.,  to  front  London 
with.  Nor  can  I  in  the  least  remember  where  we  had 
gathered  such  a  sum,  except  that  it  was  our  own,  no  part 
of  it  borrowed  or  given  us  by  anybody.  /'  Fit  to  last 
till  '  French  Revolution '  is  ready  !  "  and  she  had  no  mis- 
givings at  all.  Mill  was  penitently  liberal;  sent  mc  200/. 
(in  a  day  or  two),  of  which  I  kept  lOO/.  (actual  cost  of 
house  while  I  had  written  burnt  volume)  ;  upon  which  he 
bought  me  "  Biographie  Universelle,"  which  I  got  bound, 
and  still  have.  Wish  I  could  find  a  way  of  getting  the  now 
much  macerated,  changed,  and  fanaticised  "  John  Stuart 
Mill  "  to  take  that  100/.  back  ;  but  I  fear  there  is  no  way. 
How  my  incomparable  one  contrived  to  beat  out  these 
exiguous  resources  into  covering  the  appointed  space  I 
cannot  now  see,  nor  did  I  then  know  ;  but  in  the  like  of 
that,  as  in  her  other  tasks,  she  was  silently  successful 
always,  and  never,  that  I  saw,  had  a  misgiving  about  suc- 
cess. There  would  be  some  trifling  increments  from 
"  Phraser's  Magazine,"  perhaps  ("  Diamond  Necklace,"  etc. 
were  probably  of  those  years)  ;  but  the  guess  stated  above 
is  the  nearest  I  can  now  come  to,  and  I  don't  think  is  in 
defect  of  the  actuality.  I  was  very  diligent,  very  desper- 
ate ("  desperate  hope  ;  ")  wrote  my  two  (folio)  pages  (per- 
haps four  or  five  of  print)  day  by  day  :  then  about  two 
P.M.  walked  out;  always  heavy    laden,   grim    of  mood, 


412  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

sometimes  with  a  feeling  (not  rebellious  or  impious  against 
God  Most  High),  but  otherwise  too  similar  to  Satan's 
stepping  the  burning  marie.  Some  conviction  I  had  that 
the  book  was  worth  something,  and  pretty  constant  per- 
suasion that  it  was  not  I  that  could  make  it  better.  Once 
or  twice  among  the  flood  of  equipages  at  Hyde  Park  Cor- 
ner, I  recollect  sternly  thinking,  "  Yes ;  and  perhaps  none 
of  you  could  do  what  I  am  at!  "  But  generally  my  feel- 
ing was  "  I  shall  finish  this  book,  throw  it  at  your  feet, 
buy  a  rifle  and  spade,  and  withdraw  to  the  Transatlantic 
Wilderness,  far  from  human  beggai'ies  and  basenesses  !  " 
This  had  a  kind  of  comfort  to  me  ;  yet  I  always  knew 
too,  in  the  background,  that  this  would  not  practically  do. 
In  short,  my  nervous  system  had  got  dreadfully  irri- 
tated and  inflamed  before  I  quite  ended,  and  my  desire 
was  intense,  beyond  words,  to  have  done  with  it.  The  last 
paragraph  I  well  remember  writing  upstairs  in  the  draw- 
ing-room that  now  is,  which  was  then  my  writing-room  ; 
beside  her  there  and  in  a  grey  evening  (summer  I  sup- 
pose), soon  after  tea  (perhaps)  thereupon,  with  her  dear 
blessing  on  me,  going  out  to  walk.  I  had  said  before  go- 
ing out,  "  What  they  will  do  with  this  book,  none  knows, 
my  Jcannie,  lass  ;  but  they  have  not  had,  for  a  two  hun- 
dred years,  any  book  that  came  more  truly  from  a  man's 
very  heart,  and  so  let  them  trample  it  under  foot  and  hoof 
as  they  see  best !  "  "  Pooh,  pooh  !  they  cannot  trample 
that !  "  she  would  cheerily  answer  ;  for  her  own  approval 
(I  think  she  had  read  always  regularly  behind  me)  espe- 
cially in  vol.  iii.,  was  strong  and  decided. 

We  knew  the  Sterlings  by  this  time,  John,  and  all  of 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  413 

them  ;  old  Sterling  very  often  here.  Knew  Henry  Tay- 
lor etc.,  the  Wilsons  of  Eccleston  Street,  Rev.  Mr.  Dunn, 
etc.  etc.;  and  the  waste  wilderness  of  London  was  be- 
coming a  peopled  garden  to  us,  in  some  measure,  espe- 
cially to  her,  who  had  a  frank  welcome  to  every  sort  of 
worth  and  even  kindly  singularity  in  her  fellow-creatures, 
such  as  I  could  at  no  time  rival. 

Sprinkhngs  of  foreigners,  "political  refugees,"  had 
already  begUn  to  come  about  us  ;  to  me  seldom  of  any 
interest,  except  for  the  foreign  instruction  to  be  gathered 
from  them  (if  any),  and  the  curiosity  attached  to  their 
foreign  ways.  Only  two  of  them  had  the  least  charm  to 
me  as  men :  Mazzini,  whom  I  remember,  Mr.  Taylor, 
Mrs.  Taylor's  (ultimately  Mrs.  Mill's)  then  husband,  an 
innocent  dull  good  man,  brought  in  to  me  one  evening ; 
and  Godefroi  Cavaignac,  whom  my  Jane  had  met  some- 
where, and  thought  worth  inviting.  Mazzini  I  once  or 
twice  talked  with  ;  recognisably  a  most  valiant,  faithful, 
considerably  gifted  and  noble  soul,  but  hopelessly  given 
up  to  his  republicanisms,  his  "  Progress,"  and  other  Rous- 
seau fanaticism,  for  which  I  had  at  no  time  the  least  cre- 
dence, or  any  considerable  respect  amid  my  pity.  We 
soon  tired  of  one  another,  Mazzini  and  I,  and  he  fell 
mainly  to  her  share  ;  off  and  on,  for  a  good  many  years, 
yielding  her  the  charm  of  a  sincere  mutual  esteem,  and 
withal  a  good  deal  of  occasional  amusement  from  Maz- 
zini's  curious  bits  of  exile  London  and  foreign  life,  and 
his  singular  Italian-English  modes  of  locution  now  and 
then.  For  example,  Petrucci  having  quenched  his  own 
fiery  chimney  one  day,  and  escaped  the  fine  (as  he  hoped). 


414  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

"  tlicrc  came  to  pass  a  sweep  "  with  finer  nose  in  the  soH- 
tary  street,  who  involved  him  again.  Or,  "J/^,  niio  caro, 
non  I'c  ci  un  viorto  ! ''  which,  I  see,  she  has  copied  into 
her  poor  httle  book  of  notabiha/  Her  reports  of  these 
things  to  me,  as  we  sat  at  breakfast  or  otherwise,  had  a 
tinkle  of  the  finest  mirth  in  them,  and  in  short  a  beauty 
and  felicity  I  have  never  seen  surpassed.  Ah  me  !  ah 
me  !  whither  fled  ? 

Cavaignac  was  considerably  more  interesting  to  both 
of  us.  A  fine  Bayard  soul  (with  figure  to  correspond),  a 
man  full  of  seriousness  and  of  genial  gaiety  withal ;  of 
really  fine  faculties  and  of  a  politeness  (especially  towards 
women)  which  was  curiously  elaborated  into  punctilious- 
ness yet  sprang  everywhere  from  frank  nature.  A  man 
very  pleasant  to  converse  with,  walk  with,  or  see  drop  in 
on  an  evening,  and  lead  you  or  follow  you  far  and  wide 
on  the  world  of  intellect  and  humanly  recorded  fact.  A 
Republican  to  the  bone,  but  a  "  Bayard  "  in  that  vesture 
(if  only  Bayard  had  wit  and  fancy  at  command).  We 
had  many  dialogues  while  "  French  Revolution  "  struggled 
through  its  last  two  volumes  ;  Cavaignac  freely  discussing 
with  me,  accepting  kindly  my  innumerable  dissents  from 
him,  and  on  the  whole  elucidating  many  little  points  to 
me.  Punctually  on  \\\cjoiir  de  Van  came  some  Httle  gift 
to  her,  frugal  yet  elegant ;  and  I  have  heard  him  say  w^ith 
mantling  joyous   humour   overspreading  that   sternly  sad 

Explained  in  this  book.  An  undertaker  came  one  dark  winter  morning 
l>y  mistake  to  Mazzini's  house  to  enquire  for  the  corpse.  Mazzini,  who  an- 
swered the  bell  himself,  said,"  But,  my  dear"  (an  Italian  would  say  "my 
dear  "  to  a  hangman),  "  there  is  not  here  a  dead." 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  415 

PVench  face,  "  Voiis  ii*ites  pas  Ecossaise,  Madame  ;  ddsor- 
mais  vous  sere::;  Franqaise  I  "  I  think  he  must  have  left 
us  in  1843  ;  he  and  I  rode,  one  summer  forenoon,  to 
Richmond  and  back  (some  old  Bonapartist  colonel  mar- 
ried out  there,  dull  ignorant  loud  fellow  to  my  feeling) ; 
country  was  beautiful,  air  balmy,  ride  altogether  ditto 
ditto.  I  don't  remember  speaking  with  him  again  ;  "  go- 
ing to  Paris  this  week  "  or  so,  he  (on  unconditional  am- 
nesty, not  on  conditional  like  all  the  others).  He  returned 
once,  or  indeed  twice,  during  the  three  years  he  still  lived  ; 
but  I  was  from  home  the  last  time,  both  of  us  the  first  (at 
Newby  Cottage,  Annan,  oh  dear !)  and  I  saw  him  no 
more.  The  younger  brother  ("President"  in  1849  etc.) 
I  had  often  heard  of  from  him,  and  learned  to  esteem  on 
evidence  given,  but  never  saw.  I  take  him  to  have  been 
a  second  Godefroi  probably,  with  less  gift  of  social  utter- 
ance, but  with  a  soldier's  breeding  in  return. 

One  autumn,  and  perhaps  another,  I  recollect  her 
making  a  tour  with  the  elder  Sterling  (Thunderer  and 
wife),  which,  in  spite  of  the  hardships  to  one  so  delicate, 
she  rather  enjoyed.  Thunderer  she  had  at  her  apron- 
string,  and  brought  many  a  comical  pirouette  out  of  him 
from  time  to  time.  Good  Mrs.  S.  really  loved  her,  and 
viee  versa;  a  luminous  household  circle  that  to  us:  as 
may  be  seen  in  "  Life  of  Sterling,"  more  at  large. 

Of  money  from  "  French  Revolution"  I  had  here  as 
yet  got  absolutely  nothing  ;  Emerson  in  America,  by  an 
edition  of  his  there,  sent  me  150/.  ("pathetic  !  "  was  her 
fine  word  about  it,  "  but  never  mind,  dear  ") ;  after  some 
three  years  grateful  England  (through  poor  scrubby  but 


4l6  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

correctly  arithmetical  Fraser)  lOO/. ;  and  I  don't  remember 
when,  some  similar  munificence  ;  but  I  now  (and  indeed 
not  till  recent  years  do  I)  see  it  had  been,  as  she  called  it, 
"  a  great  success,"  and  greatish  of  its  kind.  Money  I  did 
get  somewhere  honestly,  articles  in  "  Fraser,"  in  poor 
Mill's  (considerably  hidebound)  "London  Review;" 
"Edinburgh"  I  think  was  out  for  me  before  this  time. 
"  London  Review  "  was  at  last  due  to  the  charitable  faith 
of  young  Sir  William  Molesworth,  a  poorish  narrow  crea- 
ture, but  an  ardent  believer  in  Mill  Pere  (James)  and  Mill 
Fils.  "  How  much  will  your  Review  take  to  launch  it 
then  ? "  asked  he  (all  other  Radical  believers  being  so 
close  of  fist).  "Say  4,000/.,"  answered  Mill.  "Here, 
then,"  writing  a  cheque  for  that  amount,  rejoined  the 
other.  My  private  (altogether  private)  feeling,  I  remem- 
ber, was,  that  they  could,  with  profit,  have  employed  me 
much  more  extensively  in  it ;  perhaps  even  (though  of 
this  I  was  candid  enough  to  doubt)  made  me  editor  of  it ; 
let  me  try  it  for  a  couple  of  years  ;  worse  I  could  not  have 
succeeded  than  poor  Mill  himself  did  as  editor  (sawdust 
to  the  masthead,  and  a  croakery  of  crawling  things,  in- 
stead of  a  speaking  by  men)  ;  but  I  whispered  to  none 
but  her  the  least  hint  of  all  this  ;  and  oh,  how  glad  am  I 
now,  and  for  long  years  back,  that  apparently  nothing  of 
it  ever  came  to  the  thoughts  or  the  dreams  of  Mill  and 
Co.  !  For  I  should  surely  have  accepted  of  it,  had  the 
terms  been  at  all  tolerable.  I  had  plenty  of  Radicalism, 
and  have,  and  to  all  appearance  shall  have  ;  but  the  oppo- 
site hemisphere  (which  never  was  wanting  either,  nor  will 
be,  as  it  miserably  is  in  Mill  and  Co.)  had  not  yet  found 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  417 

itself  summoned  by  the  trumpet  of  time  and  his  events 
(1848;  study  of  Oliver,  etc.)  into  practical  emergence, 
and  emphasis  and  prominence  as  now.  "  111  luck,"  take 
it  quietly  ;  you  never  are  sure  but  it  may  be  good  and 
the  best. 

Our  main  revenue  three  or  four  (?)  years  now  was 
lectures;  in  Edward  Street,  Portman  Square,  the  only 
free  room  there  was  ;  earnestly  forwarded  by  Miss  and 
Thomas  Wilson,  of  Eccleston  Street  (who  still  live  and 
are  good),  by  Miss  Martineau,  by  Henry  Taylor,  Freder- 
ick Elliot,  etc.  etc.  Brought  in,  on  the  average,  perhaps 
200/.,  for  a  month's  labour  ;  first  of  them  must  have  been 
in  1838,  I  think;  Willis's  Rooms,  this.  "  Detestable  mix- 
ture of  prophecy  and  play-actorism,"  as  I  sorrowfully  de- 
fined it ;  nothing  could  well  be  hatefuUer  to  me  ;  but  I 
was  obliged.  And  she,  oh  she  was  my  angel,  and  un- 
wearied helper  and  comforter  in  all  that ;  how  we  drove 
together,  we  poor  two,  to  our  place  of  execution  ;  she 
with  a  little  drop  of  brandy  to  give  me  at  the  very  last,, 
and  shone  round  me  like  a  bright  aureola,  when  all  else 
was  black  and  chaos  !  God  reward  thee,  dear  one  !  now 
when  I  cannot  even  own  my  debt.  Oh,  why  do  we  delay- 
so  much,  till  death  makes  it  impossible  ?  And  don't  I 
continue  it  still  with  others  ?  Fools,  fools  !  we  forget  that 
it  has  to  end  ;  so  this  has  ended,  and  it  is  such  an  aston- 
ishment to  me  ;  so  sternly  undeniable,  yet  as  it  were 
incredible  ! 

It  must  have  been  in  this  1838  that  her  mother  first 

came  to  see  us  here.     I  remember  giving  each  of  them  a 

sovereign,  from  a  pocketful  of  odd  which  I  had  brought 
27 


41 S  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

home, — greatly  to  satisfViction  especially  of  Mrs.  Welsh, 
who  I  doubt  not  bought  something  pretty  and  symbolic 
with  it.  She  came  perhaps  three  times  ;  on  one  of  the 
later  times  was  that  of  the  "  one  soiree,"  with  the  wax- 
candles  on  mother's  part — and  subsequent  remorse  on 
daughter's  !  "  Burn  these  last  two  on  the  night  when  1  lie 
dead  !  "  Like  a  stroke  of  lightning  this  has  gone  through 
my  heart,  cutting  and  yet  healing.  Sacred  be  the  name 
of  it;  its  praise  silent.  Did  I  elsewhere  meet  in  the  world 
a  soul  so  direct  from  the  Empyrean  ?  My  dear  old 
mother  was  perhaps  equally  pious,  in  the  Roman  sense, 
in  the  British  she  was  much  more  so  ;  but  starry  flashes 
of  this  kind  she  had  not — from  her  education  etc.,  could 
not. 

By  this  time  we  were  getting  noticed  by  select  indi- 
viduals of  the  Aristocracy ;  and  were  w'hat  is  called 
"  rather  rising  in  society."  Ambition  that  way  my  Jane 
never  had  ;  but  she  took  it  always  as  a  something  of 
honour  done  to  me,  and  had  her  various  bits  of  satisfac- 
tion in  it.  The  Spring-Rices  (Lords  Monteagle  after- 
wards) were  probably  the  first  of  their  class  that  ever 
asked  me  out  as  a  distinguished  thing.  I  remember  their 
flunkey  arriving  here  with  an  express  while  we  were  at 
dinner  ;  I  remember,  too,  their  soiree  itself  in  Downing 
Street,  and  the  KaXol  and  KaXal  (as  I  called  them)  with 
their  state  and  their  cfi'ulgenccs,  as  something  new  and 
entertaining  to  me.  The  Stanleys  (of  Alderley),  through 
the  Bullers,  we  had  long  since  known,  and  still  know  ;  but 
that  I  suppose  was  still  mostly  theoretic, — or  perhaps  I 
had  dined  there,  and  seen  the  Hollands  (Lord  and  Lady), 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  419 

the  etc.  (as  I  certainly  did  ultimately),  but  not  been 
judged  eligible,  or  both  catchable  and  eligible  ?  To  me 
I  can  recollect  (except  what  of  snob  ambition  there  might 
be  in  me,  which  I  hope  was  not  very  much,  though  for 
certain  it  was  not  quite  wanting  either  !)  there  was  noth- 
ing of  charm  in  any  of  them  ;  old  Lady  Holland  I  viewed 
even  with  aversion,  as  a  kind  of  hungry  "  ornamented 
witch,"  looking  over  at  me  with  merely  carnivorous  views 
(and  always  questioning  her  Dr.  Allen  when  I  said  any- 
thing) ;  nor  was  it  till  years  after  (husband,  Allen,  etc. 
all  dead)  that  I  discovered  remains  of  beauty  in  her,  a 
pathetic  situation,  and  distinguished  qualities.  My  Jane 
I  think  knew  still  less  of  her  ;  in  her  house  neither  my 
Jane  nor  I  ever  was.  At  Marshall's  (millionaire  of 
Leeds,  and  an  excellent  man,  who  much  esteemed  me, 
and  once  gave  me  a  horse  for  health's  sake)  we  had  am- 
ple assemblages,  shining  enough  in  their  kind  ; — but  she, 
I  somehow  think,  probably  for  saving  the  cost  of  "  fly" 
(oh  my  queen,  mine  and  a  true  one  !),  was  not  so  often 
there  as  L  On  the  whole,  that  too  was  a  thing  to  be 
gone  through  in  our  career ;  and  it  had  its  bits  of  bene- 
fits, bits  of  instructions,  etc.  etc.;  but  also  its  temptations, 
intricacies,  tendencies  to  vanity  etc.,  to  waste  of  time  and 
faculty ;  and  in  a  better  sphere  of  arrangement,  would 
have  been  a  "game  not  worth  the  candle."  Certain  of 
the  Aristocracy,  however,  did  seem  to  me  still  very  no- 
ble ;  and,  with  due  limitation  of  the  grossly  worthless 
(none  of  whom  had  we  to  do  with),  I  should  vote  at  pres- 
ent that,  oC  classes  known  to  me  in  England,  the  Aristoc- 
racy (with  its  perfection  of  human  politeness,  its  continual 


420  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

grace  of  bearing  and  of  acting,  steadfast  "honour,"  light 
address  and  cheery  stoicism),  if  you  see  well  into  it,  is 
actually  yet  the  best  of  English  classes.  Deep  in  it  we' 
never  were,  promenaders  on  the  shore  rather ;  but  I  have 
known  it  too,  and  formed  deliberate  judgment  as  above. 
My  dear  one  in  theory  did  not  go  so  far  (I  think)  in  that 
direction,— in  fact  was  not  at  the  pains  to  form  much 
"theory;"  but  no  eye  in  the  world  was  quicker  than 
hers  for  individual  specimens  ;— and  to  the  last  she  had  a 
great  pleasure  in  consorting  more  or  less  with  the  select 
of  these  ;  Lady  William  Russell,  Dowager  Lady  Sand- 
wich, Lady  etc.  etc.  (and  not  in  over-quantity).  I  re- 
member at  first  sight  of  the  first  Lady  Ashburton  (who 
was  far  from  regularly  beautiful,  but  was  probably  the 
chief  of  all  these  great  ladies),  she  said  of  her  to  me, 
"  Something  in  her  like  a  heathen  goddess  !  "  which  was 
a  true  reading,  and  in  a  case  not  plain  at  all,  but  oftener 
mistaken  than  rightly  taken. 

Our  first  visit  to  Addiscorhbe  together,  a  bright  sum- 
mer Sunday  ;  we  walked  (thrift,  I  daresay,  ah  me  !  from 
the  near  railway  station  ;  and  my  poor  Jeannie  grew  very 
tired  and  disheartened,  though  nothing  ill  came)  ;  I  had 
been  there  several  times,  and  she  had  seen  the  lady  here 
(and  called  her  "  heathen  goddess  "  to  me).  This  time  I 
had  at  once  joined  the  company  under  the  shady  trees, 
on  their  beautiful  lawn  ;  and  my  little  woman,  in  few 
minutes,  her  dress  all  adjusted,  came  stepping  out,  round 
the  corner  of  the  house, — with  such  a  look  of  lovely  inno- 
cency,  modesty,  ingenuousness,  gracefully-  suppressed 
timidity,  and  radiancy  of  native  cleverness,  intelligence, 


,  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  421 

and  dignity,  towards  the  great  ladies  and  great  gentle- 
men ;  it  seems  to  me  at  this  moment,  I  have  never  seen 
a  more  beautiful  expression  of  a  human  face.  Oh  my 
dearest  ;  my  dearest  that  cannot  now  know  how  dear  ! 
There  are  glimpses  of  heaven  too  given  us  on  this  earth, 
though  sorely  drowned  in  terrestrial  vulgarities,  and  sorely 
"  flamed-on  from  the  hell  beneath  "  too.  This  must  have 
been  about  1843  or  so  ? 

A  year  or  two  before,  going  to  see  her  mother,  she 
had  landed  in  total  wreck  of  sea-sickness  (miserable 
always  at  sea,  but  had  taken  it  as  cheapest  doubtless), 
and  been  brought  up  almost  speechless,  and  set  down  at 
the  Queensberry  Arms  Inn,  Annan.  Having  no  maid, 
no  sign  but  of  trouble  and  (unprofitable)  ladyhood,  they 
took  her  to  a  remote  bedroom,  and  left  her  to  her  solitary 
shifts  there.  Very  painful  to  me,  yet  beautiful  and  with 
a  noble  pathos  in  it,  to  look  back  upon  (from  her  narra- 
tive of  it)  here  and  now  !  How  Mary,  my  poor  but  ever 
faithful  "  Sister  Mary,"  came  to  her  (on  notice),  her  re- 
sources few,  but  her  heart  overflowing  ;  could  hardly  get 
admittance  to  the  flunkey  house  of  entertainment  at  all ; 
got  it,  however,  had  a  "  pint  of  sherry  "  with  her,  had 
this  and  that,  and  perhaps  on  the  third  day,  got  her 
released  from  the  base  place  ;  of  which  that  is  my  main 
recollection  now,  when  I  chance  to  pass  it,  in  its  now  dim 
enough  condition.  Perhaps  this  was  about  1840;  Mary's 
husband  (now  farmer  at  the  Gill,  not  a  clever  man,  but  a 
diligent  and  good-natured)  was  then  a  carter  with  two 
horses  in  Annan,  gradually  becoming  unable  to  live  in 
that  poor  capacity  there.     They  had  both  been  Craigen- 


422  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  . 

puttoch  figures  ;  and  might  have  been  most  sordid  to  my 
bright  darhng,  but  never  were  at  all  ;  gradually  far  from 
it,  Mary  at  least.  She  loved  Mary  for  her  kind-hearted- 
ness ;  admired  and  respected  her  skill  and  industry  in 
domestic  management  of  all  kinds  ;  and  often  contrasted 
to  me  her  perfect  talent  in  that  way,  compared  to  sister 
Jean's,  who  intellectually  was  far  the  superior  (and  had 
once  been  her  own  pupil  and  protegee,  about  the  time 
we  left  Comley  Bank  ;  always  very  kind  and  grateful  to 
her  since,  too,  but  never  such  a  favourite  as  the  other). 
Mary's  cottage  was  well  known  to  me  too,  as  I  came 
home  by  the  steamer,  on  my  visits,  and  was  often  riding 
down  to  bathe  etc.  These  visits,  "once  a  year  to  my 
mother,"  were  pretty  faithfully  paid  ;  and  did  my  heart 
always  some  good  ;  but  for  the  rest  were  unpleasantly 
chaotic  (especially  when  my  poor  old  mother,  worthiest 
and  dearest  of  simple  hearts,  became  incapable  of  man- 
agement by  her  own  strength,  and  of  almost  all  enjoy- 
ment even  from  me).  I  persisted  in  them  to  the  last,  as 
did  my  woman  ;  but  I  think  they  comprised  for  both  of 
us  (such  skinless  creatures),  in  respect  of  outward  physi- 
cal hardship,  an  amount  larger  than  all  the  other  items 
of  our  then  life  put  together. 

How  well  I  remember  the  dismal  evening,  when  we 
had  got  word  of  her  mother's  dangerous  crisis  of  illness 
(a  stroke,  in  fact,  which  ended  it)  ;  and  her  wildly  impres- 
sive look,  laden  as  if  with  resolution,  affection,  and  pro- 
phetic woe,  while  she  sate  in  the  railway  carriage  and 
rolled  away  from  me  into  the  dark.  "  Poor,  poor  Jean- 
nic  !  "  thought  I  ;  and  yet  my  sympathy  how  paltry  and 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  4^3 

imperfect  was  it  to  what  hers  would  have  been  for  me  ! 
Stony-hearted  ;  shame  on  me  !  She  was  stopped  at 
Liverpool  by  news  of  the  worst  ;  I  found  her  sharply 
wretched,  on  my  following,  and  had  a  strange  two  or 
three  months,  slowly  settling  everything  at  Templand  ; 
the  "  last  country  spring,"  and  my  first  for  many  long 
years.  Bright,  sad,  solitary  (letters  from  Lockhart  etc.), 
nocturnal  mountain  heather  burning,  by  day  the  courses 
of  the  hail-storms  from  the  mountains,  how  they  came 
pouring  down  their  respective  valleys,  deluge-like,  and 
blotted  out  the  sunshine  etc.,  spring  of  1843  or  2  ? 

I  find  it  was  in  1842  (February  20)  that  my  poor 
mother-in-law  died.  Wild  night  for  me  from  Liverpool, 
through  Dumfries  (sister  Jean  out  with  tea,  etc.),  arrival 
at  waste  Templand  (only  John  Welsh  etc.  there  ;  funeral 
quite  over)  ;  all  this  and  the  lonesome,  sad,  but  not  un- 
blessed three  months  almost  which  I  spent  there,  is  still 
vividly  in  my  mind.  I  was  for  trying  to  keep  Templand 
once,  as  a  summer  refuge  for  us,  one  of  the  most  pictur- 
esque of  locations  ;  but  her  filial  heart  repelled  the  notion  ; 
and  I  have  never  seen  more  than  the  chimney-tops  of 
Templand  since.  Her  grief,  at  my  return  and  for  months 
afterwards,  was  still  poignant,  constant  ;  and  oh  how  in- 
ferior my  sympathy  with  her  to  what  hers  would  have 
been  with  me  ;  woe  on  my  dull  hard  ways  in  comparison  ! 
To  her  mother  she  had  been  the  kindest  of  daughters  ; 
life-rent  of  Craigenputtoch  settled  frankly  on  her,  and  such 
effort  to  make  it  practically  good  to  the  letter  when  need- 
ful. I  recollect  one  gallop  of  hers,  which  Geraldine  has 
not  mentioned,  gallop  from  Craigenputtoch  to  Dumfries 


4:4  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

liank,  and  thence  to  Templand  at  a  stretch,  with  the  half- 
year's  rent,  which  our  procrastinating  brother  AHck  sel- 
dom could  or  would  be  punctual  with.  (Ah  me  !  gallop 
which  pierces  my  heart  at  this  moment,  and  clothes  my 
darling  with  a  sad  radiancy  to  me)  ;  but  she  had  many  re- 
morses, and  indeed  had  been  obliged  to  have  manifold 
little  collisions  with  her  fine  high-minded,  but  often  fanci- 
ful and  fitful  mother,  who  was  always  a  beauty,  too,  and 
had  whims  and  thin-skinned  ways,  distasteful  enough  to 
such  a  daughter.  All  which,  in  cruel  aggravation  (for  all 
were  really  small,  and  had  been  ridiculous  rather  than 
deep  or  important),  now  came  remorsefully  to  mind,  and 
many  of  them,  I  doubt  not,  stayed. 

Craigenputtoch  lapsed  to  her  in  1842,  therefore  ;  to  me 
she  had  left  the  fee-simple  of  it  by  will  (in  1824,  two  years 
before  our  marriage),  as  I  remember  she  once  told  me 
thereabouts,  and  never  but  once.  Will  found,  the  other 
day,  after  some  difficulty,  since  her  own  departure,  and 
the  death  of  any  Welsh  to  whom  she  could  have  Avished 
me  to  bequeath  it.  To  my  kindred  it  has  no  relation,  nor 
shall  it  go  to  them  ;  it  is  much  a  problem  with  me  how  I 
shall  leave  it  settled  (*'  Bursaries  for  Edinburgh  College," 
or  what  were  best  ?)  after  my  poor  interest  in  it  is  over. 
Considerably  a  problem  ;  and  what  her  wish  in  it  would 
have  actually  been  ?  "  Bursaries  "  had  come  into  my  own 
head,  when  we  heard  that  poor  final  young  Welsh  was  in 
consumption,  but  to  her  I  never  mentioned  it.  ("Wait 
till  the  young  man's  decease  do  suggest  it  ?  ")  and  now  I 
have  onl}'  hypothesis  and  guess.  She  never  liked  to 
speak  of  the  thing,  even  on  question,  which  hardly  once 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  425 

or  twice  ever  rose  ;  and  except  on  question,  a  stone  was 
not  more  silent.  Beautiful  queenlike  woman,  I  did  admire 
her  complete  perfection  on  this  head  of  the  actual 
"  dowry "  she  had  now  brought,  200/.  yearly  or  so, 
which  to  us  was  a  highly  considerable  sum,  and  how  she 
absolutely  ignored  it,  and  as  it  were  had  not  done  it  at 
all.  Once  or  so  I  can  dimly  remember  telling  her  as 
much  (thank  God  I  did  so),  to  which  she  answered  scarce- 
ly by  a  look,  and  certainly  without  word,  except  perhaps 
"Tut!" 

Thus  from  this  date  onward  we  were  a  little  richer, 
easier  in  circumstances  ;  and  the  pinch  of  poverty,  which 
had  been  relaxing  latterly,  changed  itself  into  a  gentle 
pressure,  or  into  a  limit  and  little  more/  We  did  not 
change  our  habits  in  any  point,  but  the  grim  collar  round 
my  neck  was*  sensibly  slackened.^  Slackened,  not  re- 
moved at  all,  for  almost  twenty  years  yet.  My  books 
were  not,  nor  ever  will  be  "  popular,"  productive  of 
money  to  any  but  a  contemptible  degree.  I  had  lost  by 
the  death  of  Bookseller  Fraser  and  change  to  Chapman 
and  Hall  ;  in  short  to  judge  by  the  running  after  me  by 
owls  of  Minerva  in  those  times,  and  then  to  hear  what 
day's  wages  my  books  brought  me,  would  have  astonished 
the  owl  mind.  I  do  not  think  my  literary  income  was 
above  200/.  a  year  in  those  decades,  in  spite  of  my  con- 
tinual diligence  day  by  day.  "  Cromwell  "  I  must  have 
written,  I  think,  in  1844,  but  for  four  years  prior  it  had 
been  a  continual  toil  and  misery  to  me.  I  forget  what 
was  the  price  of  "  Cromwell,"  greater  considerably  than  in 
any  previous  case,  but  the  annual  income  was  still  some- 


426  JANE   WELSH   CARLVLE. 

what  as  above.  I  had  always  200/.  or  300/.  in  bank,  and 
continually  forgot  all  about  money.  My  darling  rolled 
it  all  over  upon  mo,  and  not  one  straw  about  it ;  only 
asked  for  assurance  or  promissory  engagement  from  me. 
•'  How  little,  then  ?  "  and  never  failed  to  make  it  liberally 
and  handsomely  do.  Honour  to  her  (beyond  the  owner- 
ship of  California,  I  say  now),  and  thanks  to  poverty  that 
showed  me  how  noble,  w^orshipful,  and  dear  she  was. 

In  1S49,  after  an  interval  of  deep  gloom  and  bottom- 
less dubitation,  came  "  Latter-Day  Pamphlets,"  which 
unpleasantly  astonished  everybody,  set  the  world  upon 
the  strangest  suppositions  ("  Carlyle  got  deep  into 
whisky  !  "  saidsome\  ruined  my  "  reputation  "  (according 
to  the  friendliest  voices,  and,  in  effect,  divided  me  alto- 
gether from  the  mob  of  "  Progress-of-the-species  "  and 
other  vulgar),  but  were  a  great  relief  to, my  own  con- 
science as  a  faithful  citizen,  and  have  been  ever  since. 
My  darling  gaily  approved,  and  we  left  the  thing  to  take 
its  own  sweet  will,  with  great  indiffcrency  and  loyalty  on 
our  part.  This  did  not  help  our  incomings  ;  in  fact  I 
suppose  it  effectually  hindered,  and  has  done  so  till  quite 
recently,  any  "  progress  "  of  ours  in  that  desirable  direc- 
tion, though  I  did  not  find  that  the  small  steady  sale  of 
my  books  was  sensibly  altered  from  year  to  year,  but 
quietly  stood  where  it  used  to  be.  Chapman  (hard-fisted 
cautious  bibliographer)  would  not,  for  about  ten  years 
farther,  go  into  any  edition  of  my  "  Collected  Works."  I 
did  once  transiently  propose  it,  once  only,  and  remember 
being  sometimes  privately  a  good  deal  sulky  towards  the 
poor  man  for  his  judgment  on  that  matter,  though  decided 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  42/ 

to  leave  him  strictly  to  his  own  light  in  regard  to  it,  and 
indeed  to  avoid  him  altogether  when  I  had  not  clear  busi- 
ness with  him.  The  "  recent  return  of  popularity  greater 
than  ever"  which  I  hear  of,  seems  due  alone  to  that  late 
Edinburgh  affair  ;  especially  to  the  Edinburgh  "  address," 
and  affords  new  proof  of  the  singularly  dark  and  feeble 
condition  of  "  public  judgment"  at  this  time.  No  idea, 
or  shadow  of  an  idea,  is  in  that  address,  but  what  had 
been  set  forth  by  me  tens  of  times  before,  and  the  poor 
gaping  sea  of  Prurient  Blockheadism  receives  it  as  a  kind 
of  inspired  revelation,  and  runs  to  buy  my  books  (it  is  said) 
now  when  I  have  got  quite  done  with  their  buying  or  re- 
fusing to  buy.  If  they  would  give  me  10,000/.  a  year  and 
bray  unanimously  their  hosannahs  heaven-high  for  the 
rest  of  my  life,  who  now  would  there  be  to  get  the  small- 
est joy  or  profit  from  it  ?  To  me  I  feel  as  if  it  would  be 
a  silent  sorrow  rather,  and  would  bring  me  painful  retro- 
spections, nothing  else  !  On  the  whole,  I  feel  often  as  if 
poor  England  had  really  done  its  very  kindest  to  me, 
after  all.  Friends  not  a  few  I  do  at  last  begin  to  see  that 
I  have  had  all  along,  and  these  have  all,  or  all  but  two  or 
three,  been  decorously  silent  ;  enemies  I  cannot  strictly 
find  that  I  have  had  any  (only  blind  blockheads  running 
athwart  me  on  their  own  errand)  ;  and  as  for  the  speaking 
and  criticising  multitude,  who  regulate  the  paying  ditto, 
I  perceive  that  their  labours  on  me  have  had  a  two-fold 
result  :  i°.  that,  after  so  much  nonsense  said  in  all  dia- 
lects, so  very  little  sense  or  real  understanding  of  the 
matter,  I  have  arrived  at  a  point  of  indifferency  towards 
all  that,  which  is  really  very  desirable  to  a  human  soul 


423  JAXK    WELSH   CARLYLE. 

that  will  do  well  ;  and  2°.  that,  in  regard  to  money,  and 
payment,  etc.,  in  the  money  kind,  it  is  essentially  the 
same,  to  a  degree  which,  under  both  heads  (if  it  were  safe 
for  me  to  estimate  it),  I  should  say  was  really  a  far  nearer 
than  common  approach  to  completeness.  And  which, 
under  both  heads,  so  far  as  it  is  complete,  means  victory, 
and  the  very  highest  kind  of  ''  success  !  "  Thanks  to  poor 
anarchic  crippled  and  bewildered  England,  then  ;  hasn't 
it  done  "its  very  best"  for  me,  under  disguised  forms, 
and  seeming  occasionally  to  do  its  worst  ?  Enough  of  all 
that  ;  I  had  to  say  only  that  my  dear  little  helpmate,  in 
regard  to  these  things  also,  has  been  throughout  as  one 
sent  from  heaven  to  me.  Never  for  a  moment  did  she 
take  to  blaming  England  or  the  world  on  my  behalf; 
rather  to  quizzing  my  despondencies  (if  any  on  that  head), 
and  the  grotesque  stupidities  of  England  and  the  world. 
She  cared  little  about  criticisms  of  me,  good  or  bad,  but 
I  have  known  her  read,  when  such  came  to  hand,  the 
unfriendliest  specimens  with  real  amusement,  if  their  stu- 
pidity was  of  the  readable  or  amusing  kind  to  bystanders. 
Her  opinion  of  me  was  curiously  unalterable  from  the  first. 
In  Edinburgh,  for  example,  in  1826  still.  Bookseller  Tait 
(a  foolish  goosey,  innocent  but  very  vulgar  kind  of  mor- 
tal), "  Oh,  Mrs.  Carlyle,  fine  criticism  in  the  '  Scotsman  ; ' 
you  will  find  it  at,  I  think  you  will  find  it  at — "  "But 
what  good  will  it  do  me  ?  "  answered  Mrs.  Carlyle,  with 
great  good  humour,  to  the  miraculous  collapse  of  Tait, 
■who  stood  (I  dare  say)  with  eyes  staring  ! 

In   1845,  I'lte  autumn,  I  was  first  at  the  Grange  for  a 
few  days  (doing  d'Ewes's  "  Election  to  the  Long  Parlia- 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  429 

merit,"  I  recollect)  ;  she  with  me  the  next  year,  I  think  ; 
and  there,  or  at  Addiscombe,  Alverstoke,  Bath  House, 
saw  on  frequent  enough  occasions,  for  twelve  years  com- 
ing, or  indeed  for  nineteen  (till  the  second  Lord  Ashbur- 
ton's  death),  the  choicest  specimens  of  English  aristocracy; 
and  had  no  difficulty  in  living  with  them  on  free  and  alto- 
gether human  terms,  and  learning  from  them  by  degrees 
whatever  they  had  to  teach  us.  Something  actually, 
though  perhaps  not  very  much,  and  surely  not  the  best. 
To  me,  I  should  say,  more  than  to  her,  came  what  lessons 
there  were.  Human  friendships  we  also  had,  and  she  too 
was  a  favourite  with  the  better  kind.  Lord  Lansdovvne, 
for  example,  had  at  last  discovered  what  she  was  ;  not 
without  some  amazement  in  his  old  retrospective  mind,  I 
dare  say  !  But  to  her  the  charm  of  such  circles  was  at  all 
times  insignificant ;  human  was  what  she  looked  at,  and 
what  she  was,  in  all  circles.  Ay  de  mi  !  it  is  a  mingled  yarn, 
all  that  of  our  "  Aristocratic  "  history,  and  I  need  not 
enter  on  it  here.  One  evening,  at  Bath  House,  I  saw  her 
in  a  grand  soiree,  softly  step  up,  and  (unnoticed  as  she 
thought,  by  anybody),  kiss  the  old  Duke  of  Wellington's 
shoulder  !  That  perhaps  was  one  of  the  prettiest  things  I 
ever  saw  there.  Duke  was  then  very  old,  and  hitched  lan- 
guidly about,  speaking  only  when  spoken  to,  some  "  wow- 
wow,"  which  perhaps  had  little  meaning  in  it;  he  had  on 
his  Garter  order,  his  gold-buckle  stock,  and  was  very  clean 
and  trim  ;  but  except  making  appearance  in  certain  even- 
ing parties,  half  an  hour  in  each,  perhaps  hardly  knew 
what  he  was  doing.  From  Bath  House  we  saw  his  funeral 
procession,  a  while  after  ;  and,  to  our  disgust,  in  one  of 


4-^0  JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE. 

the  mourning  coaches,  some  official  or  dignitary  reading  a 
newspaper.  The  hearse  (seventeen  tons  of  bronze),  the 
arrangements  generally,  were  vulgar  and  disgusting  ;  but 
the  fact  itself  impressed  everybody  ;  the  street  rows  all 
silently  dofifed  hat  as  the  body  passed  ;  and  London,  alto- 
<Tether,  seemed  to  be  holding  its  breath.  A  dim,  almost 
wet  kind  of  day  ;  adieu,  adieu  !  With  Wellington  I  don't 
think  either  of  us  had  ever  spoken  ;  though  we  both  es- 
teemed him  heartily.  I  had  known  his  face  for  nearly  thirty 
years  ;  he  also,  I  think,  had  grown  to  know  mine,  as  that 
of  somebody  who  wished  him  well  ;  not  otherwise,  I  dare 
say,  or  the  proprietor's  name  at  all ;  but  I  have  seen  him 
gaze  at  me  a  little  as  we  passed  on  the  streets.  To  speak 
to  him,  with  my  notions  of  his  ways  of  thinking,  and  of  his 
articulate  endowments,  was  not  among  my  longings,  I 
went  once  to  the  House  of  Lords,  expressly  to  hear  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  and  so  complete  my  little  private  phy- 
siognomical portrait  of  him  ;  a  fine  aquiline  voice,  I  found 
it,  quite  like  the  face  of  him  ;  and  got  a  great  instruction 
and  lesson,  which  has  stayed  with  me,  out  of  his  little 
speech  itself  (Lord  Ellenborough's  "  Gates  of  Somnauth  " 
the  subject,  about  -which  I  cared  nothing)  ;  speech  of  the 
most  haggly,  hawky,  pinched  and  meagre  kind,  so  far  as 
utterance  and  "  eloquence  "  went  ;  but  potent  for  convic- 
tion beyond  any  other  ;  nay,  I  may  say,  quite  exclusively 
of  all  the  others  that  night,  which  were  mere  "  melodious 
wind  "  to  me  (Brougham's,  Derby's,  etc.  etc.),  while  this 
hitching,  stunted,  haggling  discourse  of  ten  or  thirteen 
minutes  had  made  the  Duke's  opinion  completely  mine 
too.      I  thought  of  O.  Cromwell  withal,  and  have  often 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  43 1 

since,  oftener  than  ever  before,  said  to  myself,  "  Is  not 
this  (to  make  your  opinion  mine)  the  aim  of  all  '  eloquence,' 
rhetoric,  and  Demosthenic  artillery  practice  ?  "  And  what 
is  it  good  for  ?  Fools  !  get  a  true  insight  and  belief  of 
your  own ^  as  to  the  matter  ;  that  is  the  way  to  get  your 
belief  into  me,  and  it  is  the  only  way  ! 

One  of  the  days  while  I  was  first  at  the  Grange  (in 
1845)  was  John  Sterling's  death-day.  I  had  well  marked 
it,  with  a  sad  almost  remorseful  contrast ;  we  were  at  St. 
Cross  and  Winchester  Cathedral  that  day.  I  think  my 
wife's  latest  favourites,  and  in  a  sense  friends  and  inti- 
mates, among  the  aristocracy  were  the  old  Dowager  Lady 
Sandwich  (died  about  four  years  ago,  or  three),  young 
Lady  Lothian  (recent  acquaintance),  and  the  (Dowager) 
Lady  William  Russell,  whom  I  think  she  had  something 
of  real  love  to,  and  in  a  growing  condition  for  the  last  two 
or  three  years.  This  is  a  clever,  high-mannered,  massive- 
minded  old  lady,  now  seventy-two  ;  admirable  to  me, 
this  good  while,  as  a  finished  piece  of  social  art,  but 
hardly  otherwise  much.  My  poor  little  wife  !  what  a 
capacity  of  liking,  of  sympathy,  of  giving  and  getting 
pleasure,  was  in  her  heart,  to  the  very  last,  compared 
with  my  gaunt  mournful  darkness  in  that  respect.  This 
Lady  William  wrote  many  notes  etc.  in  these  past  seven 
weeks  ;  I  was  really  sorry  for  her  withal  ;  and,  with  an 
effort,  near  a  month  ago,  went  and  saw  her.  Alas  !  she 
had  nothing  to  speak  to  me  of,  but  of  letters  recei\^ed 
(such  "  sympathy  "  from  Rome,  from  Vienna,  by  persons 
I  knew  not,  or  knew  to  be  fools  ;  as  if  this  could  have 
been  of  comfort  to  me  !) — and  I  could  perceive  the  real 


432  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

"  affection  "  (to  whatever  extent)  had  been  mostly  on  my 
poor  darling's  side,  the  alone  opulent  in  that  kind  ! 
"  Pleasant  at  our  little  bits  of  artistic  dinners  "  (the  lady 
seemed  to  feel);  "a  sweet  orange,  which  has  dropped 
from  one's  hand  into  the  dust!"  I  came, away,  not 
angry  (oh  no),  but  full  of  miserable  sorrowful  feelings  of 
the  poverty  of  life  ;  and  have  not  since  been  back. 

She  liked  London  constantly,  and  stood  in  defence  of 
it  against  me  and  my  atrabilious  censures  of  it,  never  had 
for  herself  the  least  wish  to  quit  it  again,  though  I  was 
often  talking  of  that,  and  her  practice  would  have  been 
loyal  compliance  for  my  behoof.  I  well  remember  my 
first  walking  her  up  to  Hyde  Park  Corner  in  the  summer 
evening,  and  her  fine  interest  in  everything.  At  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Green  Park  I  found  something  for  her  to  sit  on  ; 
"  Hah,  there  is  John  Mill  coming  !  "  I  said,  and  her  joy- 
ful ingenuous  blush  is  still  very  beautiful  to  me.  The 
good  child  !  It  did  not  prove  to  be  Mill  (whom  she  knew 
since  1831,  and  liked  for  my  sake);  but  probably  I  showed 
her  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  whom  one  often  used  to  see 
there,  striding  deliberately  along,  as  if  home  from  his 
work,  about  that  hour  ;  him  (I  almost  rather  think,  that 
same  evening),  and  at  any  rate,  other  figures  of  distinc- 
tion or  notoriety.  And  we  said  to  one  another,  "  How 
strange  to  be  in  big  London  here  ;  isn't  it?"  Our  pur- 
chase of  household  kettles  and  saucepans  etc.  in  the  mean 
ironmongery,  so  noble  in  its  poverty  and  loyalty  on  her 
part,  is  sad  and  infinitely  lovely  to  mc  at  this  moment. 

We  had  plenty  of  "  company  "  from  the  very  first  ; 
John  Mill,  down  from  Kensington  once  a  week  or  oftener  ; 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  433 

the  "  Mrs.  Austin  "  of  those  days,  so  popular  and  almost 
famous,  on  such  exiguous  basis  (translations  from  the 
German,  rather  poorly  some,  and  of  original  nothing  that 
rose  far  above  the  rank  of  twaddle)  ;  "  feiiune  alors  ce- 
Icbre,'"  as  we  used  to  term  the  phenomenon,  parodying 
some  phrase  I  had  found  in  Thiers,  Mrs.  A.  affected 
much  sisterhood  with  us  (affected  mainly,  though  in  kind 
wise),  and  was  a  cheery,  sanguine,  and  generally  accepta- 
ble member  of  society, — already  up  to  the  Marquis  of 
Lansdowne  (in  a  slight  sense),  much  more  to  all  the 
Radical  officials  and  notables  ;  Charles  Buller,  Sir  W. 
Molesworth,  etc.  etc.  of  "  alors.''  She  still  lives,  this 
Mrs.  A.,  in  quiet  though  eclipsed  condition  ;  spring  last 
she  was  in  town  for  a  couple  of  weeks  ;  and  my  dear  one 
went  twice  to  see  her,  though  I  couldn't  manage  quite. 
Erasmus  Darwin,  a  most  diverse  kind  of  mortal,  came  to 
seek  us  out  very  soon  ("had  heard  of  Carlyle  in  Germany 
etc.")  and  continues  ever  since  to  be  a  quiet  house-friend, 
honestly  attached  ;  though  his  visits  latterly  have  been 
rarer  and  rarer,  health  so  poor,  I  so  occupied,  etc.  etc. 
He  had  something  of  original  and  sarcastically  ingenious 
in  him,  one  of  the  sincerest,  naturally  truest,  and  most 
modest  of  men  ;  elder  brother  of  Charles  Darwin  (the 
famed  Darwin  on  Species  of  these  days),  to  whom  I 
rather  prefer  him  for  intellect,  had  not  his  health  quite 
doomed  him  to  silence  and  patient  idleness  ; — grandsons, 
both,  of  the  first  famed  Erasmus  ("  Botanic  Garden"  etc.), 
who  also  seems  to  have  gone  upon  "  species  "  questions, 
"  omnia  ex  conchis  "  (all  from  oysters)  being  a  dictum  of 

his  (even  a  stamp  he  sealed  with  still  extant),  as  the  pres- 
28 


434  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

ent  Erasmus  once  told  me,  many  long  years  before  this 
of  Darwin  on  Species  came  up  among  us  !  Wonderful 
to  mc,  as  indicating  the  capricious  stupidity  of  mankind  ; 
never  could  read  a  page  of  it,  or  waste  the  least  thought 
upon  it.  E.  Darwin  it  was  who  named  the  late  Whewell, 
seeing  him  sit,  all  ear  (not  all  assent)  at  some  of  my  lec- 
tures, "the  Harmonious  Blacksmith  ;"  a  really  descrip- 
tive title.  My  dear  one  had  a  great  favour  for  this  honest 
Darwin  always  ;  many  a  road,  to  shops  and  the  like,  he 
drove  her  in  his  cab  ("  Darwingium  Cabbum,"  compara- 
ble to  Georgium  Sidus),  in  those  early  days  when  even 
the  charge  of  omnibuses  was  a  consideration,  and  his 
sparse  utterances,  sardonic  often,  were  a  great  amusement 
to  her.  "  A  perfect  gentleman,"  she  at  once  discerned 
him  to  be,  and  of  sound  worth  and  kindliness,  in  the  most 
unaffected  form.  "  Take  me  now  to  Oxygen  Street,  a 
dyer's  shop  there !  "  Darwin,  without  a  wrinkle  or  re- 
mark, made  for  Oxenden  Street  and  drew  up  at  the  re- 
quired door.  Amusingly  admirable  to  us  both,  when  she 
« 

came  home. 

Our  commonest  evening  sitter,  for  a  good  while,  was 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  lived  close  by,  and  delighted  to  sit  talk- 
ing with  us  (free,  cheery,  idly  melodious  as  bird  on 
bough),  or  listening,  with  real  feeling,  to  her  old  Scotch 
tunes  on  the  piano,  and  winding  up  with  a  frugal  morsel 
of  Scotch  porridge  (endlessly  admirable  to  Hunt).  I  think 
I  spoke  of  this  above  ?  Hunt  was  always  accurately 
dressed,  these  evenings,  and  had  a  fine  chivalrous  gentle- 
manly carriage,  polite,  affectionate,  respectful  (especially 
to  hcrj,  and  yet  so  free  and  natural.     Her  brilliancy  and 


JANE    WELSH    CARLYLE.  435 

faculty  he  at  once  recognised,  none  better,  but  there  rose 
gradually  in  it,  to  his  astonished  eye,  something  of  posi- 
tive, of  practically  steadfast,  which  scared  him  off  a  good 
deal  ;  the  like  in  my  own  case  too,  still  more,  which  he 
would  call  "  Scotch,"  "  Presbyterian,"  who  knows  what; 
and  which  gradually  repelled  him,  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger, 
quite  away  from  us,  with  rare  exceptions,  which,  in  his 
last  years,  was  almost  pathetic  to  us  both.  Long  before 
this,  he  had  gone  to  live  in  Kensington,  and  we  scarcely 
saw  him  except  by  accident.  His  household,  while  in  "4 
Upper  Cheyne  Row,"  within  few  steps  of  us  here,  almost 
at  once  disclosed  itself  to  be  huggermugger,  unthrift,  and 
sordid  collapsed,  once  for  all  ;  and  had  to  be  associated 
with  on  cautious  terms  ;  while  he  himself  emerged  out  of 
it  in  the  chivalrous  figure  I  describe.  Dark  complexion 
(a  trace  of  the  African,  I  believe),  copious  clean  strong 
black  hair,  beautifully-shaped  head,  fine  beaming  serious 
hazel  eyes  ;  seriousness  and  intellect  the  main  expression 
of  the  face  (to  our  surprise  at  first)  ;  he  would  lean  on  his 
elbow  against  the  mantel  piece  (fine  clean,  elastic  figure 
too  he  had,  five  feet  ten  or  more),  and  look  round  him 
nearly  in  silence,  before  taking  leave  for  the  night,  "  as  if 
I  were  a  Lar,"  said  he  once,  "  or  permanent  household 
god  here  !  "  (such  his  polite  aerial-like  way).  Another 
time,  rising  from  this  Lar  attitude,  he  repeated  (voice 
very  fine)  as  if  in  sport  of  parody,  yet  with  something  of 
very  sad  perceptible,  "  While  I  to  sulphurous  and  penal 
fire "...  as  the  last  thing  before  vanishing.  Poor 
Hunt  !  no  more  of  him.  She,  I  remember,  was  almost 
in  tears  during  some  last  visit  of  his,  and  kind  and  pity- 


^^6  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

in"-  as  a  daughter  to  the  now  weak  and    time-worn  old 

man. 

Allan  Cunningham,  living  in  Pimlico,  was  well  within 
walking  distance,  and  failed  not  to  come  down  now  and 
then,  always  friendly,  smooth  and  fond  of  pleasing;  "a 
solid  Dumfries  stone-mason  at  any  rate  !  "  she  would  de- 
fine him.  He  had  very  smooth  manners,  much  practical 
shrewdness,  some  real  tone  of  melody  lodged  in  him, 
item  a  twinkle  of  bright  mockery  where  he  judged  it  safe, 
culture  only  superficial  (of  the  surface,  truly)  ;  reading, 
information,  ways  of  thinking,  all  mainly  ditto  ditto. 
Had  a  good  will  to  us  evidently  ;  not  an  unwelcome  face, 
when  he  entered,  at  rare  intervals  ;  always  rather  rarer,  as 
they  proved  to  be  ;  he  got  at  once  into  Nithsdale,  recalled 
old  rustic  comicalities  (seemed  habitually  to  dwell  there), 
and  had  not  much  of  instruction  either  to  give  or  receive. 
His  resort  seemed  to  be  much  among  Scotch  City  people, 
who  presented  him  with  punchbowls  etc.;  and  in  his  own 
house  there  were  chiefly  unprofitable  people  to  be  met. 
We  admired  always  his  sense  for  managing  himself  in 
strange  London  ;  his  stalwart  healthy  figure  and  ways 
(bright  hazel  eyes,  bald  open  brow,  sonorous  hearty  tone 
of  voice,  a  tall,  perpendicular,  quietly  manful-looking  fig- 
ure), and  were  sorry  sincerely  to  lose  him,  as  we  suddenly 
did.  His  widow  too  is  now  gone  ;  some  of  the  sons  (es- 
pecially Colonel  Frank,  the  youngest,  and  a  daughter, 
who  lives  with  Frank),  have  still  a  friendly  though  far-off 
relation  to  this  house. 

Harriet  Martineau  had  for  some  years  a  much  more 
lively  intercourse  here,  introduced  by  Darwin  possibly, 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  437 

or  I  forget  by  whom,  on  her  return  from  America  ;  her 
book  upon  which  was  now  in  progress.  Harriet  had 
started  into  honhood  since  our  first  visit  to  London,  and 
was  still  run  much  after,  by  a  rather  feeble  set  of  persons 
chiefly.  She  was  not  unpleasant  to  talk  with  for  a  little, 
though  through  an  ear-trumpet,  without  which  she  was 
totally  deaf  To  admire  her  literary  genius,  or  even  her 
solidity  of  common  sense,  was  never  possible  for  either 
of  us  ;  but  she  had  a  sharp  eye,  an  imperturbable  self- 
possession,  and  in  all  things  a  swiftness  of  positive  deci- 
sion, which  joined  to  her  evident  loyalty  of  intention,  and 
her  frank,  guileless,  easy  ways,  we  both  liked.  Her 
adorers,  principally,  not  exclusively,  "  poor  whinnering 
old  moneyed  women  in  their  well-hung  broughams,  other- 
wise idle,"  did  her  a  great  deal  of  mischief;  and  indeed 
as  it  proved  were  gradually  turning  her  fine  clear  head 
(so  to  speak),  and  leading  to  sad  issues  for  her.  Her 
talent,  which  in  that  sense  was  very  considerable,  I  used 
to  think,  would  have  made  her  a  quite  shining  matron  of 
some  big  female  establishment,  mistress  of  some  immense 
dress-shop,  for  instance  (if  she  had  a  dressing-faculty, 
which  perhaps  she  hadn't)  ;  but  was  totally  inadequate  to 
grapple  with  deep  spiritual  and  social  questions,  into 
which  she  launched  at  all  turns,  nothing  doubting.  How- 
ever, she  was  very  fond  of  us,  me  chiefly,  at  first,  though 
gradually  of  both,  and  I  was  considerably  the  first  that 
tired  of  her.  She  was  much  in  the  world,  we  little  or 
hardly  at  all ;  and  her  frank  friendly  countenance,  eager 
for  practical  help  had  it  been  possible,  was  obliging  and 
agreeable  in  the  circumstances,  and  gratefully  acknowl- 


438  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

ed"'ctl  by  us.  For  the  rest,  she  was  full  of  Ni<j^ger  fa- 
naticisms ;  admirations  for  (e.g.)  her  brother  James  (a 
Socinian  preacher  of  due  quality).  The  "exchange  of 
ideas  "  with  her  was  seldom  of  behoof  in  our  poor  sphere. 
But  she  was  practically  very  good.  I  remember  her 
coming  down,  on  the  sudden  when  it  struck  her,  to  de- 
mand dinner  from  us  ;  and  dining  pleasantly,  with  praise 
of  the  frugal  terms.  Her  soirees  were  frequent  and 
crowded  (small  house  in  Fludyer  Street  full  to  the 
door)  ;  and  we,  for  sake  of  the  notabilities  or  notorie- 
ties wandering  about  there,  were  willing  to  attend  ; 
gradually  learning  how  insignificant  such  notabilities 
nearly  all  were.  Ah  me,  the  thing  which  it  is  now  touch- 
ing to  reflect  on,  was  the  thrift  we  had  to  exercise,  my 
little  heroine  and  I  !  My  darling  was  always  dressed  to 
modest  perfection  (talent  conspicuous  in  that  way,  I  have 
always  understood  and  heard  confirmed),  but  the  expense 
of  los.  6d.  for  a  "  neat  fly"  was  never  to  be  thought  of; 
omnibus,  with  clogs  and  the.  best  of  care,  that  was  always 
our  resource.  Painful  at  this  moment  is  the  recollection 
I  have  of  one  time,  muddy  night,  between  Regent  Street 
and  our  goal  in  Fludyer  Street,  when  one  of  her  clogs 
came  loose  ;  I  had  to  clasp  it,  with  what  impatience  com- 
pared to  her  fine  tolerance,  stings  me  with  remorse  just 
now.  Surely,  even  I  might  have  taken  a  cab  from  Regent 
Street;  \s.,  \s.  6d.\  and  there  could  have  been  no 
"quarrel  about  fare"  (which  was  always  my  horror  in 
such  cases)  ;  she,  beautiful  high  soul,  never  whispered  or 
dreamt  of  such  a  thing,  possibly  may  have  expressly  for- 
bidden it,  though  I  cannot  recollect  that  it  was  proposed 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  439 

in  this  case.  Shame  on  me  !  However,  I  cleaned  per- 
fectly my  dirty  fingers  again  (probably  in  some  handy 
little  rain-pool  in  the  Park,  with  diligent  wiping)  ;  she 
entered  faultless  into  the  illumination  (I  need  not  doubt), 
and  all  still  went  well  enough. 

In  a  couple  of  years  or  so,  our  poor  Harriet,  nerves  all 
torn  by  this  racket,  of  "  fame  "  so-called,  fell  seriously  ill ; 
threatening  of  tumour,  or  I  know  not  what ;  removed 
from  London  (never  has  resided  there  since,  except  for 
temporary  periods) ;  took  shelter  at  Tynemouth,  "to  be 
near  her  brother-in-law,  an  expert  surgeon  in  Newcastle, 
and  have  solitude,  and  the  pure  sea  air."  Solitude  she 
only  sometimes  had  ;  and,  in  perfection,  never ;  for  it 
soon  became  evident  she  was  constantly  in  spectacle 
there,  to  herself  and  to  the  sympathetic  adorers  (who  re- 
freshed themselves  with  frequent  personal  visits  and  con- 
tinual correspondings) ;  and  had,  in  sad  effect,  so  far  as 
could  be  managed,  the  whole  world,  along  with  self  and 
company,  for  a  theatre  to  gaze  upon  her.  Life  in  the 
sickroom,  with  "  Christus  Consolator  "  (a  paltry  print  then 
much  canted  of),  etc.  etc.;  this,  and  other  sad  books, 
and  actions  full  of  ostentation,  done  there,  gave  painful; 
evidence,  followed  always  by  painfuller,  till  the  atheism, 
etc.  etc.,  which  I  heard  described  (by  the  first  Lady  Ash- 
burton  once)  as  '*  a  stripping  of  yourself  naked,  not  to 
the  skin  only,  but  to  the  bone,  and  walking  about  in  that 
guise  !  "  (clever  of  its  kind). 

Once  in  the  earliest  stage  of  all  this,  we  made  her  a 
visit,  my  Jane  and  I  ;  returning  out  of  Scotland  by  that 
route.     We  were  very  sorry  for  her ;  not  censorious  in 


440  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

any  measure,  though  the  aspects  were  ah-eady  question- 
able, to  both  of  us  (as  I  surmise).  We  had  our  lodging 
in  the  principal  street  (rather  noisy  by  night),  and  stayed 
about  a  week,  not  with  much  profit,  I  think,  either  to  her 
or  ourselves  ;  I  at  least  with  none. 

There  had  been,  before  this,  some  small  note  or  two 
of  correspondence  ;  with  little  hope  on  my  part,  and  now 
I  saw  it  to  be  hopeless.  My  hopefullcr  and  kindlier  little 
darling  continued  it  yet  awhile,  and  I  remember  scrubby- 
ish  (lively  enough,  but  "  sawdustish  ")  Socinian  didactic 
httle  notes  from  Tynemouth  for  a  year  or  two  hence  ;  but 
the  vapidly  didactic  etc.  vein  continuing  more  and  more, 
even  she,  I  could  perceive,  was  getting  tired  of  it,  and  at 
length,  our  poor  good  Harriet,  taking  the  sublime  terror 
"that  her  letters  might  be  laid  hold  of  by  improper  par- 
ties in  future  generations,"  and  demanding  them  all  back 
that  she  herself  might  burn  them,  produced,  after  perhaps 
some  retiring  pass  or  two,  a  complete  cessation.  We 
never  quarrelled  in  the  least,  we  saw  the  honest  ever  self- 
sufficient  Harriet,  in  the  compan^y  of  common  friends,  still 
once  or  twice,  with  pleasure  rather  than  otherwise  ;  but 
never  had  more  to  do  with  her  or  say  to  her.  A  soul 
clean  as  river  sand  ;  but  which  would  evidently  grow  no 
flowers  of  our  planting  !  I  remember  our  return  home 
from  that  week  at  Tynemouth  ;  the  yelling  flight  through 
some  detestable  smoky  chaos,  and  midnight  witch-dance 
of  base-looking  nameless  dirty  towns  (or  was  this  some 
other  time,  and  Lancashire  the  scene  ?)  I  remember  she 
was  with  me,  and  her  bright  kiugh  (long  after,  perhaps 
towards  Rugby  now)  in  the  face  of  some  innocent  young 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  44 1 

gentleman  opposite,  who  had  higeniously  made  a  night- 
cap for  himself  of  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  looked 
really  strange  (an  improvised  "  Camus  crowned  with 
sedge  ")  but  was  very  good-humoured  too.  During  the 
week,  I  also  recollect  reading  one  play  (never  any  since 
or  before)  of  Knight's  edition  of  "  Shakspeare,"  and 
making  my  reflections  on  that  fatal  brood  of  people,  and 
the  nature  of  "  fame  "  etc.  Sweet  friends,  for  Jesus'  sake 
forbear ! 

In  those  first  years,  probably  from  about  1839,  we 
had  got  acquainted  with  the  Leeds  Marshall  family  ;  espe- 
ciahy  with  old  Mr.  (John)  Marshall,  the  head  and  founder 
of  it,  and  the  most  or  really  almost  only  interesting  item 
of  it.  He  had  made  immense  moneys  ("  wealth  now  no 
object  to  him,"  Darwin  told  us  in  the  name  of  everybody), 
by  skilful,  faithful  and  altogether  human  conduct  in  his 
flax  and  linen  manufactory  at  Leeds  ;  and  was  now  settled 
in  opulently  shining  circumstances  in  London,  endeavour- 
ing to  enjoy  the  victory  gained.  Certain  of  his  sons  were 
carrying  on  the  Leeds  "  business"  in  high,  quasi  "  patri- 
otic "  and  "morally  exemplary,"  though  still  prudent 
and  successful  style  ;  the  eldest  was  in  Parliament,  '*  a 
landed  gentleman  "  etc.  etc. ;  wife  and  daughters  were 
the  old  man's  London  household,  with  sons  often  incident- 
ally present  there.  None  of  them  was  entertaining  to 
speak  with,  though  all  were  honest  wholesome  people. 
The  old  man  himself,  a  pale,  sorrow-stricken,  modest, 
yet  dignified-looking  person,  full  of  respect  for  intellect, 
wisdom  and  worth  (as  he  understood  the  terms)  ;  low 
voiced,    almost    timidly   inarticulate     (you    would    have 


442  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

said)  ;  yet  with  a  definite  and  mildly  precise  imperative- 
ness to  his  subalterns,  as  I  have  noticed  once  or  twice, 
was  an  amicable,  humane,  and  thoroughly  respectable 
phenomenon  to  mc.  The  house  (Grosvenor*  Street,  west- 
ern division),  was  resplendent,  not  gaudy,  or  offensive 
with  wealth  and  its  fruits  and  furnishings  ;  the  dinners 
large,  and  splendidly  served  ;  guests  of  distinction  (espe- 
cially on  the  Whig  or  Radical  side),  were  to  be  met  with 
there,  and  a  good  sprinkling  of  promising  younger  people 
of  the  same,  or  a  superior  type.  Soirees  extensive,  and 
sumptuously  illuminated  in  all  senses,  but  generally  not 
entertaining.  My  astonishment  at  the  "  Reform"  M.P.'s 
whom  I  met  there,  and  the  notions  they  seemed  "re- 
forming "  (and  radicalling,  and  quarrelling  with  their  su- 
riors)  upon  !  We  went  pretty  often  (I  think  I  myself  far 
the  oftener,  as  in  such  cases,  my  loyal  little  darling  taking 
no  manner  of  offence  not  to  participate  in  my  lionings, 
but  behaving  like  the  royal  soul  she  w^as,  I,  dullard  egoist, 
taking  no  special  recognition  of  such  nobleness,  till  the 
bar  was  quite  passed,  or  even  not  fully  then  !)  Alas,  I 
see  it  now  (perhaps  better  than  I  ever  did  !),  but  we  sel- 
dom had  much  real  profit,  or  even  real  enjoyment  for  the 
hour.  Wc  never  made  out  together  that  often-urged 
"visit  to  Ilalsteads"  (grand  mansion  and  establishment, 
near  Greystoke,  head  of  Ullswater  in  Cumberland).  I 
myself,  partly  by  accident,  and  under  convoy  of  James 
Spedding,  was  there  once,  long  after,  for  one  night ;  and 
felt  very  dull  and  wretched,  though  the  old  man  and  his 
good  o!d  wife  etc.  were  so  good.  Old  Mr.  Marshall  was 
a  man  worth  having  known  ;  evidently  a  great  deal  of  hu- 


JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE.  443 

man  worth  and  wisdom  lying  funded  in  him.  And  the 
world's  resources  even  when  he  had  victory  over  it  to  the 
full,  were  so  exiguous,  and  perhaps  to  himself  almost  con- 
temptible !  I  remember  well  always,  he  gave  me  the  first 
horse  I  ever  had  in  London,  and  with  what  noble  simpli- 
city of  unaffected  politeness  he  did  it.  "Son  William" 
(the  gentleman  son,  out  near  Watford)  "  will  be  glad  to 
take  it  off  your  hands  through  winter  ;  and  in  summer  it 
will  help  your  health,  you  know  !  "  And  in  this  way  it 
continued  two  Bummers  (most  part  of  two),  till  in  the 
second  winter  William  brought  it  down  ;  and  it  had  to  be 
sold  for  a  trifle,  17/.  if  I  recollect,  which  William  would 
not  give  to  the  Anti-Corn-Law  Fund  (then  struggling  in 
the  shallows)  as  I  urged,  but  insisted  on  handing  over  to 
me.  And  so  it  ended.  I  was  at  Headingely  (by  Leeds) 
with  James  Marshall,  just  wedded  to  Spring-Rice's  daugh- 
ter, a  languishing  patroness  of  mine  ;  stayed  till  third 
day  ;  and  never  happened  to  return.  And  this  was  about 
the  sum  of  my  share  in  the  Marshall  adventure.  It  is 
well  known  the  Marshall  daughters  were  all  married  off 
(each  of  them  had  50,000/.)  and  what  intricate  intermar- 
rying with  the  Spring-Rices  there  was,  "  Dowager  Lady 
Monteagle "  that  now  is  being  quasi-mother-in-law  of 
James  Marshall,  her  own  brother,  wife  etc.  etc.  !  "  Fam- 
ily so  used  up  !"  as  old  Rogers  used  to  snuffle  and  say.  My 
Jeannie  quarrelled  with  nothing  in  Marshalldom  ;  quite 
the  contrary  ;  formed  a  kind  of  friendship  (conquest  I 
believe  it  was,  on  her  side  generously  converted  into  some- 
thing of  friendship)  with  Cordelia  Marshall,  a  prim  affec- 
tionate, but  rather  puling  weak  and  sentimental  elderly 


444  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

youn^^  lady,  who  became,  shortly  after,  wife,  first  wife  of 
the  late  big  Whewell,  and  aided  his  position  and  advance- 
ment towards  Mastership  of  Trinity,  etc.  I  recollect 
seein"-  them  both  here,  and  Cordelia's  adoration  of  her 
'*  Harmonious  Blacksmith,"  with  friendly  enough  assent, 
and  some  amusement,  from  us  two  ;  and  I  don't  think  I 
ever  saw  Cordelia  again.  She  soon  ceased  to  write 
hither  ;  we  transiently  heard,  after  certain  years,  that  she 
was  dead,  and  Whewell  had  married  again. 

I  am  weary,  writing  down  all  this; -so  little  has  my 
lost  one  to  do  with  it,  which  alone  could  be  its  interest 
for  me !  I  believe  I  should  stop  short.  The  London 
years  are  not  definite,  or  fertile  in  disengaged  remem- 
brances, like  the  Scotch  ones:  dusty  dim,  unbeautiful 
they  still  seem  to  me  in  comparison  ;  and  my  poor  Jean- 
nie's  "  problem  ''  (which  I  believe  was  sorer,  perhaps  far 
sorer,  than  ever  of  old,  but  in  which  she  again  proved  not 
to  be  vanquishable,  and  at  length  to  be  triumphant  !)  is 
so  mixed  with  confusing  intricacies  to  me  that  I  cannot 
sort  it  out  into  clear  articulation  at  all,  or  give  the  features 
of  it,  as  before.  The  general  type  of  it  is  shiningly  clear 
to  me.  A  noble  fight  at  my  side  ;  a  valiant  strangling  of 
serpents  day  after  day  done  gaily  by  her  (for  most  part),  as 
I  had  to  do  it  angrily  and  gloomily  ;  thus  we  went  on  to- 
gether.    Ay  de  mi  !     Ay  de  mi  ! 

[June  28.     Note  from  Dods  yesterday  that  the  tablet' 
was  not  come,  nor  indeed  had  been  expected  ;   note  to- 
day that  it  did  come  yesterday  ;  at  this  hour  probably  the 
mason  is  hewing  out  a  bed  for  it ;  in  the  silence  of  the 
'  For  the  church  at  Haddington,  where  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  buried. 


JAXE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  445 

Abbey  Kirk  yonder,  as  completion  of  her  father's  tomb. 
The  eternities  looking  down  on  him,  and  on  us  poor  Sons 
of  Time  !     Peace,  peace  !] 

By  much  the  tenderest  and  beautifullest  reminiscence 
to  me  out  of  those  years  is  that  of  the  Lecture  times.  T'le 
vilest  welter  of  odious  confusions,  horrors  and  repugnan- 
cies ;  to  which,  meanwhile,  there  was  compulsion  abso- 
lute ;  and  to  which  she  was  the  one  irradiation  ;  noble 
loving  soul,  not  to  be  quenched  in  any  chaos  that  might 
come.  Oh,  her  love  to  me ;  her  cheering,  unaffected, 
useful  practicality  of  help  :  was  not  I  rich,  after  all  ?  She 
had  a  steady  hope  in  me,  too,  while  I  myself  had  habitu- 
ally none  (except  of  the  desperate  kind)  ;  nay  a  steady 
contentment  with  me,  and  with  our  lot  together,  let  hope 
be  as  it  might,  "  Never  mind  him,  my  dear,"  whispered 
Miss  Wilson  to  her,  one  day,  as  I  stood  wriggling  in  my 
agony  of  incipiency,  "  people  like  it  ;  the  more  of  that, 
the  better  does  the  Lecture  prove  !  "  Which  was  a  truth  ; 
though  the  poor  sympathiser  might,  at  the  moment,  feel 
it  harsh.  This  Miss  Wilson  and  her  brother  still  live 
(2  Eccleston  Street)  ;  opulent,  fine,  Church  of  England 
people  (scrupulously  orthodox  to  the  sccularities  not  less 
than  the  spiritualities  of  that  creed),  and  Miss  Wilson  very 
clever  too  (i.e.  full  of  strong  just  insight  in  her  way)  ;  who 
had  from  the  first  taken  to  us,  and  had  us  much  about 
them  (Spedding,  Maurice,  etc.  attending)  then  and  for 
some  years  afterwards  ;  very  desirous  to  help  us,  if  that 
could  have  much  done  it  (for  indeed,  to  me,  it  was  always 
mainly  an  indigestion  purchased  by  a  loyal  kind  of  weari- 
ness).    I  have  seen  Sir  James  Stephen  there,  but  did  not 


44^  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

then  understand  him,  or  that  he  could  be  a  "  clever  man," 
as  reported  by  Henry  Taylor  and  other  good  judges. 
"  He  shuts  his  eyes  on  you,"  said  the  elder  Spring-Rice 
(Lord  Monteagle),  "  and  talks  as  if  he  were  dictating  a 
Colonial  Despatch  "  (most  true  ;  "  teaching  you  how  not 
to  do  it,"  as  Dickens  defined  afterwards) ;  one  of  the 
pattest  things  I  ever  heard  from  Spring-Rice,  who  had 
rather  a  turn  for  such.  Stephen  ultimately,  when  on  half- 
pay  and  a  Cambridge  Professor,  used  to  come  down 
hither  pretty  often  on  an  evening,  and  we  heard  a  great 
deal  of  talk  from  him,  recognisably  serious  and  able, 
though  always  in  that  Colonial-Office  style,  more  or  less. 
Colonial-Office  being  an  Impotency  (as  Stephen  inarticu- 
lately, though  he  never  said  or  whispered  it,  well  knew), 
what  could  an  earnest  and  honest  kind  of  man  do,  but  try 
and  teach  you  how  not  to  do  it  ?  Stephen  seemed  to  me 
a  master  in  that  art. 

The  lecture  time  fell  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  Sterling 
period,  which  latter  must  have  lasted  in  all,  counting  till 
John's  death,  about  ten  years  (autumn  1845  when  John 
died).  To  my  Jeannie,  I  think,  this  was  clearly  the  sun- 
niest and  wholesomest  element  in  her  then  outer  life.  All 
the  household  loved  her,  and  she  had  virtually,  by  her 
sense,  by  her  felt  loyalty,  expressed  oftenest  in  a  gay 
mildly  quizzing  manner,  a  real  influence,  a  kind  of  light 
command  one  might  almost  call  it,  willingly  yielded  her 
among  them.  Details  of  this  arc  in  print  (as  I  said 
above).  In  the  same  years,  Mrs.  Buller  (Charles's 
mother)  was  a  very  cheerful  item  to  her.  Mrs.  B.  (a 
whilom  Indian  beauty,  wit  and  finest  fine  lady),  who  had 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  447 

at  all  times  a  very  recognising  eye  for  talent,  and  real 
reverence  for  it,  very  soon  made  out  something  of  my 
little  woman,  and  took  more  and  more  to  her,  all  the  time 
she  lived  after.  Mrs.  B.'s  circle  was  gay  and  populous  at 
this  time  (Radical  chiefly  ;  Radical  lions  of  every  com- 
plexion), and  we  had  as  much  of  it  as  we  would  consent 
to.  I  remember  being  at  Leatherhead  too,  and,  after 
that  a  pleasant  rustic  week  at  Troston  Parsonage  (in  Suf- 
folk, where  Mrs.  B.'s  youngest  son  "  served,"  and  serves), 
which  Mrs.  B.  contrived  very  well  to  make  the  best  of, 
sending  me  to  ride  for  three  days  in  Oliver  Cromwell's 
country,  that  she  might  have  the  wife  more  to  herself. 
My  Jane  must  have  been  there  altogether,  I  dare  say, 
near  a  month  (had  gone  before  me,  returned  after  me), 
and  I  regretted  never  to  have  seen  the  place  again.  This 
must  have  been  in  September  or  October  1842  ;  Mrs. 
Welsh's  death  in  early  spring  past.  I  remember  well  my 
feelings  in  Ely  Cathedral,  in  the  close  of  sunset  or  dusk  ; 
the  place  was  open,  free  to  me  without  witnesses  ;  people 
seemed  to  be  tuning  the  organ,  which  went  in  solemr; 
gusts  far  aloft.  The  thought  of  Oliver,  and  his  "  Leave 
off  your  fooling,  sir,  and  come  down  !  "  was  almost  as  if 
audible  to  me.  Sleepless  night,  owing  to  cathedral  bells, 
and  strange  ride  next  day  to  St.  Ives,  to  Hinchinbrook, 
etc.,  and  thence  to  Cambridge,  with  thundercloud  and 
lightning  dogging  me  to  rear  and  bursting  into  torrents 
few  minutes  after  I  got  into  the  Hoop  Inn. 

My  poor  darling  had,  for  constant  accompaniment  to 
all  her  bits  of  satisfactions,  an  altogether  weak  state  of 
health,    continually   breaking  down,  into  violent  fits  of 


448  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

headache  in  her  best  times,  and  in  winter-season  into 
cough  etc.  in  hngcring  forms  of  a  quite  sad  and  exhaust- 
insr  sort.  Wonderful  to  mc  how  she,  so  sensitive  a  crea- 
turc,  maintained  her  hoping  cheerful  humour  to  such  a 
degree,  amidst  all  that;  and,  except  the  pain  of  inevitable 
sympathy,  and  vague  fluttering  fears,  gave  mc  no  pain. 
Careful  always  to  screen  me  from  pain,  as  I  by  no  means 
always  reciprocally  was ;  alas,  no,  miserable  egoist  in 
comparison.  At  this  time  I  must  have  been  in  the  thick 
of  "  Cromwell ;"  four  years  of  abstruse  toil,  obscure 
speculations,  futile  wrestling,  and  misery,  I  used  to  count 
it  had  cost  me,  before  I  took  to  editing  the  "  Letters  and 
Speeches"  ("  to  have  them  out  of  my  way"),  which  rap- 
idly drained  off  the  sour  swamp  water  bodily,  and  left  me, 
beyond  all  first  expectation,  quite  free  of  the  matter. 
Often  I  have  thought  how  miserable  my  books  must  have 
been  to  her,  and  how,  though  they  were  none  of  her 
choosing,  and  had  come  upon  her  like  ill  weather  or  ill 
health,  she  at  no  instant,  never  once  I  do  believe,  made 
the  least  complaint  of  me  or  my  behaviour  (often  bad, 
or  at  least  thoughtless  and  weak)  under  them  !  Always 
some  quizzing  little  lesson,  the  purport  and  effect  of 
which  was  to  encourage  mc  ;  never  once  anything  worse. 
Oh,  it  was  noble,  and  I  see  it  so  well  now,  when  it  is  gone' 
from  me,  and  no  return  possible. 

"  Cromwell  "  was  by  much  the  worst  book-time,  till 
this  of  "  Friedrich,"  which  indeed  was  infinitely  worse  ; 
in  the  dregs  of  our  strength  too  ; — and  lasted  for  about 
thirteen  years.  She  was  generally  in  quite  weak  health, 
too,  and  was  often,  for  long  weeks  or  months,  miserably  ill. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  449 

It  was  strange  how  she  contrived  to  sift  out  of  such  a 
troublous  forlorn  day  as  hers,  in  each  case,  was,  all  avail- 
able little  items,  as  she  was  sure  to  do,  and  used  to  have 
them  ready  for  me  in  the  evening  when  my  work  was 
done,  in  the  prettiest  little  narrative  anybody  could  have 
given  of  such  things.  Never  again  shall  I  have  such  me- 
lodious, humanly  beautiful  half-hours  ;  they  were  the  rain- 
bow of  my  poor  dripping  day,  and  reminded  me  that 
there  otherwise  was  a  sun.  At  this  time,  and  all  along, 
she  "  did  all  the  society  ;  "  was  all  brightness  to  the  one 
or  two  (oftenest  rather  dull  and  prosaic  fellows,  for  the 
better  sort  respected  my  seclusion,  especially  during  that 
last  "  Friedrich  "  time)  whom  I  needed  to  see  on  my  af- 
fairs in  hand,  or  who  with  more  of  brass  than  others, 
managed  to  intrude  upon  me.  For  these  she  did,  in  their 
several  kinds,  her  very  best.  Her  own  people  whom  I 
might  be  apt  to  feel  wearisome  (dislike  any  of  them  I 
never  did,  or  his  or  her  discharge  from  service  would  have 
swiftly  followed),  she  kept  beautifully  out  of  my  way,  sav- 
ing my  "  politeness  "  withal  ;  a  very  perfect  skill  she  had 
in  all  this  ;  and  took  my  dark  toiling  periods,  however 
long  sullen  and  severe  they  might  be,  with  a  loyalty  and 
heart  acquiescence  that  never  failed,  the  heroic  little  soul ! 

"  Latter-Day  Pamphlet"  time,  and  especially  the  time 
that  preceded  it  (1848  etc.)  must  have  been  very  sore  and 
heavy.  My  heart  was  long  overloaded  with  the  mean- 
ings at  length  uttered  there,  and  no  way  of  getting  them 
set  forth  would  answer.  I  forget  what  ways  I  tried,  or 
thought  of.     "  Times  "  newspaper  was    one  (alert,  airy, 

rather  vacant  editorial  gentleman   I  remember  going  to 
29 


450  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

once,  in  Printing  House  Square)  ;    but  this,  of  course, 
proved  hypothetical  merely,  as  all  others  did,  till  we,  as 
last  shift,  gave  the  rough  MSS.  to  Chapman  (in  Forster's 
company  one  winter  Sunday).     About  half  of  those  ulti- 
mately printed  might  be  in  Chapman's  hands,  but  there 
was  much  manipulation  as  well  as  addition  needed.    Fors- 
ter  soon  fell  away,  I  could  perceive,  into  terror  and  sur- 
prise, as  indeed  everybody  did.     "  A  lost  man  !  "  thought 
everybody.     Not  she  at  any  moment  ;  much  amused  by 
the  outside  pother,  she,  and  glad  to  see  me  getting  deliv- 
ered of  my  black  electricities  and  consuming  fires  in  that 
way.     Strange   letters   came   to    us,    during   those    nine 
months   of  pamphleteering,    strange   visitors   (of    moon- 
struck unprofitable  type  for  most  part),  who  had,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  been  each  of  them  wearing  himself 
half-mad  on  some  one  of  the  public  scandals  I  was  recog- 
nizing and  denouncing.     I  still  remember  some  of  their 
faces  and  the  look  their  paper  bundles  had.     She  got  a 
considerable   entertainment  out  of  all  that,  went   along 
with  me  in  everything  (probably  counselling  a  little  here 
and   there,  a  censorship   well  wArth    my  regarding,  and 
generally  adoptable,  here  as  everywhere),  and  minded  no 
whit  any  results  that  might  follow  this  evident   speaking 
of  the  truth.     Somebody,  writing  from  India  I  think,  and 
clearly  meaning  kindness,  "did  hope"  (some  time  after- 
wards) "  the  tide  would  turn,  and  this  lamentable  hostility 
of  the  press  die  away  into  friendship  again  ;  "  at  which  I 
remember  our  innocent  laughter,  ignorant  till  then  what 
"The  Press's  "  feelings  were,  and  leaving  "  The  Press" 
very  welcome  to  them  then.     Neuberg  helped  me  zeal- 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  451 

ously,  as  volunteer  amanuensis  etc.,  through  all  this  busi- 
ness, but  I  know  not  that  even  he  approved  it  all,  or  any 
of  it  to  the  bottom.  In  the  whole  world  I  had  one  com- 
plete approver  ;  in  that,  as  in  other  cases,  one,  and  it  was 
worth  all. 

On  the  back  of  "Latter-Day  Pamphlets"  followed 
"  Life  of  Sterling  ;  "  a  very  quiet  thing,  but  considerably 
disapproved  of  too,  as  I  learned,  and  utterly  revolting  to 
the  religious  people  in  particular  (to  my  surprise  rather 
than  otherwise).  "Doesn't  believe  in  us,  then,  either?" 
Not  he,  for  certain  ;  can't,  if  you  will  know  !  Others  urged 
disdainfully,  "  What  has  Sterling  done  that  he  should  have 
a  Life  !  "  "  Induced  Carlyle  somehow  to  write  him  one  !  " 
answered  she  once  (to  the  Ferguses,  I  think)  in  an  arch 
airy  way  which  I  can  well  fancy,  and  which  shut  up  that 
question  there.  The  book  was  afterwards  greatly  praised, 
acrain  on  rather  weak  terms  I  doubt.  What  now  will 
please  me  best  in  it,  and  alone  will,  was  then  an  accident- 
al quality,  the  authentic  light,  under  the  due  conditions, 
that  is  thrown  by  it  on  her.  Oh,  my  dear  one,  sad  is  my 
soul  for  the  loss  of  thee,  and  will  to  the  end  be,  as  I  com- 
pute !  Lonelier  creature  there  is  not  henceforth  in  this 
world  ;  neither  person,  work,  nor  thing  going  on  in  it  that 
is  of  any  value,  in  comparison,  or  even  at  all.  Death  I 
feel  almost  daily  in  express  fact,  death  is  the  one  haven  ; 
and  have  occasionally  a  kind  of  kingship,  sorrowful,  but 
sublime,  almost  godlike,  in  the  feeling  that  that  is  nigh. 
Sometimes  the  image  of  her,  gone  in  her  car  of  victory 
(in  that  beautiful  death),  and  as  if  nodding  to  me  with  a 
smile,  "  I   am  gone,  loved  one  ;  work  a  little  longer,  if 


452  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

thou  still  care^t  ;  if  not,  follow.  There  is  no  baseness, 
and  no  misery  here.  Courage,  courage  to  the  last  !  "  that, 
sometimes,  as  in  this  moment,  is  inexpressibly  beautiful 
to  me,  and  comes  nearer  to  bringing  tears  than  it  once 
did. 

In  1852  had  come  the  new  modelling  of  our  house, 
attended  with  infinite  dusty  confusion  (head-carpenter, 
stupid  though  honest,  fell  ill,  etc.  etc.) ;  confusion  falling 
upon  her  more  than  me,  and  at  length  upon  her  alto- 
gether. She  was  the  architect,  guiding  and  directing  and 
contriving  genius,  in  all  that  enterprise,  seemingly  so 
foreign  to  her.  But,  indeed,  she  was  ardent  in  it,  and  she 
had  a  talent  that  way  which  was  altogether  unique  in  my 
experience.  An  "  eye  "  first  of  all  ;  equal  in  correctness 
to  a  joiner's  square,  this,  up  almost  from  her  childhood, 
as  I  understood.  Then  a  sense  of  order,  sense  of  beauty, 
of  wise  and  thrifty  convenience  ;  sense  of  wisdom  alto- 
gether in  fact,  for  that  was  it ;  a  human  intellect  shining 
luminous  in  every  direction,  the  highest  and  the  lowest 
(as  I  remarked  above).  In  childhood  she  used  to  be  sent 
to  seek  when  things  fell  lost  ;  "  the  best  seeker  of  us  all," 
her  father  would  say,  or  look  (as  she  thought)  ;  for  me 
also  she  sought  everything,  with  such  success  as  I  never 
saw  elsewhere.  It  was  she  who  widened  our  drawing- 
room  (as  if  by  a  stroke  of  genius)  and  made  it  zealously 
(at  the  partial  expense  of  three  feet  from  her  own  bed- 
room) into  what  it  is,  one  of  the  prettiest  little  drawing- 
rooms  I  ever  saw,  and  made  the  whole  house  into  what  it 
now  is.  How  frugal,  too,  and  how  modest  about  it ! 
House  was  hardly  finished,  when  there  arose  that  of  the 


I 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  453 

"  demon  fowls,"  as  she  appropriately  named  them  ;  ma- 
caws, Cochin-chinas,  endless  concert  of  crowing,  cack- 
ling, shrieking  roosters  (from  a  bad  or  misled  neighbour, 
next  door)  which  cut  us  off  from  sleep  or  peace,  at  times 
altogether,  and  were  like  to  drive  me  mad,  and  her 
through  me,  through  sympathy  with  me.  From  which 
also  she  was  my  deliverer,  had  delivered  and  contrived  to 
deliver  me  from  hundreds  of  such  things  (oh,  my  beauti- 
ful little  Alcides,  in  the  new  days  of  anarchy  and  the 
mud-gods,  threatening  to  crush  down  a  poor  man,  and 
kill  him  with  his  work  still  on  hand  !)  I  remember  well 
her  setting  off,  one  winter  morning,  from  the  Grange  on 
this  enterprise,  probably  having  thought  of  it  most  of  the 
night  (sleep  denied).  She  said  to  me  next  morning  the 
first  thing  :  "  Dear,  we  must  extinguish  those  demon 
fowls,  or  they  will  extinguish  us !  Rent  the  house  (No. 
6,  proprietor  mad  etc.  etc.)  ourselves  !  it  is  but  some  40/. 
a  year ;  pack  away  those  vile  people,  and  let  it  stand 
empty.  "  I  will  go  this  very  day  upon  it,  if  you  assent ;  " 
and  she  went  accordingly,  and  slew  altogether  this  Lerna 
hydra,  at  far  less  expense  than  taking  the  house,  nay  al- 
most at  no  expense  at  all,  except  by  her  fine  intellect, 
tact,  just  discernment,  swiftness  of  decision,  and  general 
nobleness  of  mind  (in  short).  Oh,  my  bonny  little  wo- 
man, mine  only  in  memory  now  ! 

I  left  the  Grange  two  days  after  her,  on  this  occasion, 
hastening  through  London,  gloomy  of  mind,  to  see  my 
dear  old  mother  yet  once  (if  I  might)  before  she  died. 
She  had,  for  many  months  before,  been  evidently  and 
painfully  sinking  away,  under  no  disease,  but  the  ever- 


454  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

increasing  infirmities  of  eighty-three  years  of  time.  She 
had  expressed  no  desire  to  see  me,  but  her  love  from  my 
birth  upwards,  under  all  scenes  and  circumstances,  I  knew 
to  be  emphatically  a  mother's.  I  walked  from  the  Kirtle- 
".  bridge  Station  that  dim  winter  morning  ;  my  one  thought 
"  Shall  I  see  her  yet  alive  ?  "  She  was  stiU  there ;  weary, 
very  weary,  and  wishing  to  be  at  rest.  I  think  she  only 
at  times  knew  me  ;  so  bewildering  were  her  continual  dis- 
tresses ;  once  she  entirely  forgot  me  ;  then,  in  a  minute  or 
two,  asked  my  pardon.  Ah  me  1  ah  me  !  It  was  my 
mother  and  not  my  mother  ;  the  last  pale  rim  or  sickle  of 
the  moon,  which  had  once  been  full,  now  sinking  in  the 
dark  seas.  This  lasted  only  three  days.  Saturday  night 
she  had  her  full  faculties,  but  was  in  nearly  unendurable 
misery,  not  breath  sufficient  etc.,  etc.  John  tried  various 
reliefs,  had  at  last  to  give  a  few  drops  of  laudanum,  which 
€ased  the  misery,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  brought  sleep. 
All  next  day  she  lay  asleep,  breathing  equally  but  heavily, 
her  face  grand  and  solemn,  almost  severe,  like  a  marble 
statue  ;  about  four  P.M.  the  breathing  suddenly  halted, 
recommenced  for  half  an  instant,  then  fluttered,  ceased. 
"  All  the  days  of  my  appointed  time,"  she  had  often  said, 
"  will  I  wait  till  my  change  come."  The  most  beautifully 
religious  soul  I  ever  knew.  Proud  enough  she  was  too, 
though  piously  humble,  and  full  of  native  intellect,  hu- 
mour, etc.,  though  all  undeveloped.  On  the  religious 
side,  looking  into  the  very  heart  of  the  matter,  I  always 
reckon  her  rather  superior  to  my  Jane,  who  in  other 
shapes  and  with  far  different  exemplars  and  conditions, 
had  a  great  deal  of  noble  religion  too.     Her  death  filled 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  455 

me  with  a  kind  of  dim  amazement  and  crush  of  confused 
sorrows,  which  were  very  painful,  but  not  so  sharply  pa- 
thetic as  I  might  have  expected.  It  was  the  earliest  terror 
of  my  childhood  "  that  I  might  lose  my  mother;  "  and  it 
had  gone  with  me  all  my  days.  But,  and  that  is  probably 
the  whole  account  of  it,  I  was  then  sunk  in  the  miseries 
of  "  Friedrich  "  etc.  etc.,  in  many  miseries  ;  and  was  then 
fifty-eight  years  of  age.  It  is  strange  to  me,  in  these  very 
days,  how  peaceable,  though  still  sacred  and  tender,  the 
memory  of  my  mother  now  lies  in  me.  (This  very  morn- 
ing, I  got  into  dreaming  confused  nightmare  stuff  about 
some  funeral  and  her  ;  not  hers,  nor  obviously  my  Jane's, 
seemingly  my  father's  rather,  and  she  sending  me  on  it, — 
the  saddest  bewildered  stuff.  What  a  dismal  debasing  and 
confusing  element  is  that  of  a  sick  body  on  the  human 
soul  or  thinking  part  !) 

It  was  in  1852  (September-October,  for  about  a  month) 
that  I  had  first  seen  Germany,  gone  on  my  first  errand  as 
to  "Friedrich:"  there  was  a  second,  five  years  after- 
wards ;  this  time  it  was  to  enquire  (of  Preuss  and  Co.)  ; 
to  look  about  me,  search  for  books,  portraits,  etc.  etc.  I 
went  from  Scotsbrig  (my  dear  old  mother  painfully  weak, 
though  I  had  no  thought  it  would  be  the  last  time  I  should 
see  her  afoot)  ;  from  Scotsbrig  for  Leith  by  Rotterdam, 
Koln,  Bonn  (Neuberg's)  ; — and  on  the  whole  never  had 
nearly  so  (outwardly)  unpleasant  a  journey  in  my  life  ;  till 
the  second  and  last  I  made  thither.  But  the  Chelsea  es- 
tablishment was  under  carpenters,  painters  ;  till  those  dis- 
appeared, no  work  possible,  scarcely  any  living  possible 
(though  my  brave  woman  did  make  it  possible  without 


456  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

complaint).  "  Stay  so  many  weeks,  all  painting  at  least 
shall  then  be  off!  "  I  returned,  near  broken-down  utterly, 
at  the  set  time  ;  and  alas,  was  met  by  a  foul  dabblement 
of  paint  oozing  downstairs ;  the  painters  had  proved 
treacherous  to  her  ;  time  could  not  be  kept !  It  was  the 
one  instance  of  such  a  thing  here  :  and,  except  the  first 
sick  surprise,  I  now  recollect  no  more  of  it. 

"  Mamma,  wine  makes  cosy  !  "  said  the  bright  little 
one,  perhaps  between  two  and  three  years  old,  her 
mother,  after  some  walk  with  sprinkling  of  wet  or  the 
like,  having  given  her  a  dram-glass  of  wine  on  their  get- 
ting home  :  "  Mamma,  wine  makes  cosy  !  "  said  the 
small  silver  voice,  gaily  sipping,  getting  its  new  bits  of 
insight  into  natural  philosophy!  What  "pictures"  has 
my  beautiful  one  left  me  ;  what  joys  can  surround  every 
well-ordered  human  heart.  I  said  long  since,  I  never  saw 
so  beautiful  a  childhood.  Her  little  bit  of  a  first  chair, 
its  wee  wee  arms  etc.,  visible  to  me  in  the  closet  at  this 
moment,  is  still  here,  and  always  was.  I  have  looked  at 
it  hundreds  of  times  ;  from  of  old,  with  many  thoughts. 
No  daughter  or  son  of  hers  was  to  sit  there  ;  so  it  had 
been  appointed  us»  my  darling.  I  have  no  book  a  thou- 
sandth-part so  beautiful  as  thou  ;  but  these  were  our  only 
"  children," — and,  in  a  true  sense,  these  were  verily  ours  ; 
and  will  perhaps  live  some  time  in  the  world,  after  we  are 
both  gone  ; — and  be  of  no  damage  to  the  poor  brute 
chaos  of  a  world,  let  us  hope  !  The  Will  of  the  Supreme 
shall  be  accomplished.     Amen.     But  to  proceed. 

Shortly  after  my  return  from  Germany  (next  summer 
I   think,  while  the  Cochin-chinas  were  at  work,  and  we 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  457 

could  not  quit  the  house,  having  spent  so  much  on  it,  and 
got  a  long  lease),  there  began  a  new  still  worse  hurly- 
burly  of  the  building  kind,  that  of  the  new  top-story,— 
whole  area  of  the  house  to  be  thrown  into  one  sublime 
garret-room,  lighted  from  above,  thirty  feet  by  thirty  say, 
and  at  least  eleven  feet  high,  double-doored,  double-win- 
dowed, impervious  to  sound,  to — in  short,  to  everything 
but  self  and  work  !  .  I  had  my  grave  doubts  about  all 
this ;  but  John  Chorley,  in  his  friendly  zeal,  warmly 
urged  it  on,  pushed,  superintended  ; — and  was  a  good 
deal  disgusted  with  my  dismal  experience  of  the  result. 
Something  really  good  might  have  come  of  it  in  a  scene 
where  good  and  faithful  work  was  to  be  had  on  the  part 
of  all,  from  architect  downwards  ;  but  here,  from  all 
(except  one  good  young  man  of  the  carpenter  trade,  whom 
I  at  length  noticed  thankfully  in  small  matters),  the 
"work,"  of  planning  to  begin  with,  and  then  of  executing, 
in  all  its  details,  was  mere  work  of  Belial,  i.e.  of  the  Father 
of  lies  ;  such  "  work"  as  I  had  not  conceived  the  possi- 
bility of  among  the  sons  of  Adam  till  then.  By  degrees, 
I  perceived  it  to  be  the  ordinary  English  "  work  "  of  this 
epoch ;  and,  with  manifold  reflections,  deep  as  Tophet, 
on  the  outlooks  this  offered  for  us  all,  endeavoured  to  be 
silent  as  to  my  own  little  failure.  My  new  illustrious 
"  study  "  was  definable  as  the  least  inhabitable,  and  most 
entirely  detestable  and  despicable  bit  of  human  workman- 
ship in  that  kind,  sad  and  odious  to  me  very.  But,  by 
many  and  long-continued  efforts,  with  endless  bothera- 
tions which  lasted  for  two  or  three  years  after  (one  winter 
starved  by  "  Arnott's  improved  grate,"  I  recollect),  I  did 


458  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

get  it  patched  together  into  something  of  supportability ; 
and  continued,  though  under  protest,  to  inhabit  it  during 
all  working  hours,  as  I  had  indeed  from  the  first  done. 
The  whole  of  the  now  printed  "  Friedrich  "  was  written 
there  (or  in  summer  in  the  back  court  and  garden,  when 
driven  down  by  baking  heat).  Much  rawer  matter,  I 
think,  was  tentatively  on  paper,  before  this  sublime  new 
"study."  "Friedrich"  once  done,  I  quitted  the  place 
for  ever,  and  it  is  now  a  bedroom  for  the  servants.  The 
"  architect  "  for  this  beautiful  bit  of  masonry  and  carpen- 
try was  one  "  Parsons,"  really  a  clever  creature,  I  could 
see,  but  swimming  as  for  dear  life  in  a  mere  "  mother  of 
dead  dogs  "  (ultimately  did  become  bankrupt).  His  men 
of  all  types,  Irish  hodmen  and  upwards,  for  real  mendacity 
of  hand,  for  drunkenness,  greediness,  mutinous  nomadism, 
and  anarchic  malfeasance  throughout,  excelled  all  experi- 
ence or  conception.  Shut  the  lid  on  their  "  unexampled 
prosperity  "  and  them,  for  evermore. 

The  sufferings  of  my  poor  little  woman,  throughout 
all  this,  must  have  been  great,  though  she  whispered 
nothing  of  them, — the  rather,  as  this  was  my  enterprise 
(both  the  "  Friedrich  "  and  it) ; — indeed  it  was  by  her  ad- 
dress and  invention  that  I  got  my  sooterkin  of  a  "  study" 
improved  out  of  its  worst  blotches  ;  it  was  she,  for  ex- 
ample, that  went  silently  to  Bramah's  smith  people,  and 
got  me  a  fireplace,  of  merely  human  sort,  which  actually 
warmed  the  room  and  sent  Arnott's  miracle  about  its 
business.  But  undoubtedly  that  "  Friedrich  "  affair,  with 
its  many  bad  adjuncts,  was  much  the  worst  we  ever  had, 
and  sorely  tried  us  both.     It  lasted  thirteen  years  or  more. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  459 

To  me  a  desperate  dead-lift  pull  all  that  time  ;  my  whole 
strength  devoted  to  it  ;  alone,  withdrawn  from  all  the 
world  (except  some  bores  who  would  take  no  hint,  almost 
nobody  came  to  see  me,  nor  did  I  wish  almost  anybody 
then  left  living  for  me),  all  the  world  withdrawing  from 
me  ;  I  desperate  of  ever  getting  through  (not  to  speak  of 
"  succeeding,")  left  solitary  "  with  the  nightmares"  (as  I 
sometimes  expressed  it),  "hugging  unclean  creatures" 
(Prussian  Blockheadism)  "  to  my  bosom,  trying  to  caress 
and  flatter  their  secret  out  of  them !  "  Why  do  I  speak 
of  all  this  ?  It  is  now  become  Koirpo^  to  me,  insignificant  as 
the  dung  of  a  thousand  centuries  ago.  I  did  get  through, 
thank  God  ;  let  it  now  wander  into  the  belly  of  oblivion 
for  ever.  But  what  I  do  still,  and  shall  more  and  more, 
remember  with  loving  admiration  is  her  behavior  in  it. 
She  was  habitually  in  the  feeblest  health  ;  often,  for  long 
whiles,  grievously  ill.  Yet  by  an  alchemy  all  her  own, 
she  had  extracted  grains  as  of  gold  out  of  every  day,  and 
seldom  or  never  failed  to  have  something  bright  and 
pleasant  to  tell  me,  when  I  reached  home  after  my  even- 
ing ride,  the  most  fordone  of  men.  In  all,  I  rode,  during 
that  book,  some  30,000  miles,  much  of  it  (all  the  winter 
part  of  it)  under  cloud  of  night,  sun  just  setting  when  I 
mounted.  All  the  rest  of  the  day,  I  sat  silent  aloft,  in- 
sisting upon  work,  and  such  work,  invitissimd  Minerva 
for  that  matter.  Home  between  five  and  six,  with  mud 
mackintoshes  off,  and,  the  nightmares  locked  up  for  a 
while,  I  tried  for  an  hour's  sleep  before  my  (solitary,  die- 
tetic, altogether  simple)  bit  of  dinner  ;  but  first  always 
came  up  for  half  an  hour  to  the  drawing-room  and  her  ; 


46o  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

■where  a  bright  kindly  fire  was  sure  to  be  burning  (candles 
hardly  lit,  all  in  trustful  chiaroscuro),  and  a  spoonful  of 
brandy  in  water,  with  a  pipe  of  tobacco  (which  I  had 
learned  to  take  sitting  on  the  rug,  with  my  back  to  the 
jamb,  and  door  never  so  little  open,  so  that  all  the  smoke, 
if  I  was  careful,  went  up  the  chimney),  this  was  the  one 
bright  portion  of  my  black  day.  Oh,  those  evening  half- 
hours,  how  beautiful  and  blessed  they  were,  not  awaiting 
me  now  on  my  home-coming,  for  the  last  ten  weeks  !  She 
was  oftenest  reclining  on  the  sofa  ;  wearied  enough,  she 
too,  with  her  day's  doings  and  endurings.  But  her  his- 
tory, even  of  what  was  bad,  had  such  grace  and  truth, 
and  spontaneous  tinkling  melody  of  a  naturally  cheerful 
and  loving  heart,  that  I  never  anywhere  enjoyed  the  like. 
Her  courage,  patience,  silent  heroism,  meanwhile,  must 
often  have  been  immense.  Within  the  last  two  years  or 
so  she  has  told  me  about  my  talk  to  her  of  the  Battle  of 
Mollwitz  on  these  occasions,  while  that  was  on  the  anvil. 
She  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  weak,  but  I  knew  little  how 
weak,  and  patient,  kind,  quiet  and  good  as  ever.  After 
tugging  and  wriggling  through  what  inextricable  labyrinth 
and  slough  of  despond  I  still  remember,  it  appears  I  had 
at  last  conquered  Mollwitz,  saw  it  all  clear  ahead  and 
round  me,  and  took  to  telling  her  about  it,  in  my  poor 
bit  of  joy,  night  after  night.  I  recollect  she  answered 
little,  though  kindly  always.  Privately,  she  at  that  time 
felt  convinced  she  was  dying  : — dark  winter,  and  such  the 
weight  of  misery  and  utter  decay  of  strength,  and,  night 
after  night,  my  theme  to  her,  Mollwitz  !  This  she  owned 
to  me,  within  the  last  year  or  two,  which  how  could  I  lis- 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  46 1 

ten  to  without  shame  and  abasement  ?  Never  in  my  pre- 
tended superior  kind  of  life,  have  I  done,  for  love  of  any 
creature,  so  supreme  a  kind  of  thing.  It  touches  me  at 
this  moment  with  penitence  and  humiliation,  yet  with  a 
kind  of  soft  religious  blessedness  too.  She  read  the  first 
two  volumes  of  "  Friedrich,"  much  of  it  in  printer's  sheets 
(while  on  visit  to  the  aged  Misses  Donaldson  at  Hadding- 
ton) ;  her  blame  was  unerringly  straight  upon  the  blot, 
her  applause  (should  not  I  collect  her  fine  notekins  and 
reposit  them  here  ?)  was  beautiful  and  as  sunlight  to  me, 
for  I  knew  it  was  sincere  withal,  however  exaggerated  by 
her  great  love  of  me.  The  other  volumes  (hardly  even 
the  third,  I  think)  she  never  read — I  knew  too  well  why  ; 
and  submitted  without  murmur,  save  once  or  twice  per- 
haps a  little  quiz  on  the  subject,  which  did  not  afflict  her, 
either.  Too  weak,  too  weak  by  far,  for  a  dismal  enter- 
prise of  that  kind,  as  I  knew  too  well !  But  those  Hadding- 
ton visits  were  very  beautiful  to  her  (and  to  me  through 
her  letters  and  her),  and  by  that  time  we  were  over  the 
hill  and  "the  worst  of  our  days  were  passed"  (as  poor 
Irving  used  to  give  for  toast,  long  ago),  worst  of  them 
past,  though  we  did  not  yet  quite  know  it. 

[July  3. J  VoU.  I  and  2  of  "Friedrich"  were  pub- 
lished, I  find,  in  1858.  Probably  about  two  years  before 
that  was  the  nadir  of  my  wife's  sufierings,— internal  suffer- 
ings and  dispiritments  ;  for  outward  fortune  etc.  had  now, 
for  about  ten  years,  been  on  a  quite  tolerable  footing,  and 
indeed  evidently  fast  on  the  improving  hand  :  nor  had 
this,  at  any  worse  time,  ever  disheartened  her,  or  dark- 
ened her  feelings.     But  in  1856,  owing  to  many  circum- 


462  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

stances,  my  engrossment  otherwise  (sunk  in  "Friedrich," 
in  etc.  etc.  ;  far  less  exclusively,  very  far  less,  than  she 
supposed,  poor  soul  !) ; — and  owing  chiefly,  one  may 
fancy,  to  the  deeper  downbreak  of  her  own  poor  health, 
which  from  this  time,  as  I  now  see  better,  continued  its 
advance  upon  the  citadel,  or  nervous  system,  and  intrinsi- 
cally grew  worse  and  worse: — in  1856,  too  evidently,  to 
whatever  owing,  my  poor  little  darling  was  extremely 
miserable  !  Of  that  year  there  is  a  bit  of  private  diary, 
by  chance  left  unburnt  ;  found  by  me  since  her  death, 
and  not  to  be  destroyed,  however  tragical  and  sternly 
sad  are  parts  of  it.  She  had  written,  I  sometimes  knew 
(though  she  would  never  show  to  me  or  to  mortal  any 
word  of  them),  at  different  times,  various  bits  of  diary  ; 
and  was  even,  at  one  time,  upon  a  kind  of  autobiography 

(had  not  C ,  the  poor  C now  just  gone,  stept  into 

it  with  swine's  foot,  most  intrusively,  though  without  ill 
intention, — finding  it  unlocked  one  day  ; — and  produced 
thereby  an  instantaneous  burning  of  it  ;  and  of  all  like  it 
which  existed  at  that  time).  Certain  enough,  she  wrote 
various  bits  of  diary  and  private  record,  unknown  to  me  : 
but  never  anything  so  sore,  downhearted,  harshly  dis- 
tressed and  sad  as  certain  pages  (right  sure  am  I  !)  which 
alone  remain  as  specimen  !  The  rest  are  all  burnt ;  no 
trace  of  them,  seek  where  I  may. 

A  very  sad  record  !  We  went  to  Scotland  soon  after ; 
she  to  Auchtertool  (cousin  Walter's),  I  to  the  Gill  (sister 
Mary's). 

In  July  1856,  soon  after,  may  have  been  about  middle 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  463 

of  month,  we  went  to  Edinburgh  ;  a  blazing  day,  full  of 
dust  and  tumult,  which  I  still  very  well  remember  !  Lady 
Ashburton  had  got  for  herself  a  grand  "  Queen's  saloon  " 
or  ne-plus-tiltra  of  railway  carriages  (made  for  the  Queen 
some  time  before)  costing  no  end  of  money.  Lady  sat,  or 
lay,  in  the  saloon.  A  common  six-seat  carriage,  imme- 
diately contiguous,  was  accessible  from  it.  In  this  the 
lady  had  insisted  we  should  ride,  with  her  doctor  and  her 
maid  ;  a  mere  partition,  with  a  door,  dividing  us  from 
her.  The  lady  was  very  good,  cheerful  though  much  un- 
well ;  bore  all  her  difficulties  and  disappointments  with 
an  admirable  equanimity  and  magnanimity  :  but  it  was 
physically  almost  the  uncomfortablest  journey  I  ever 
made.  At  Peterborough,  the  ne-plus-itltra  was  found  to 
have  its  axletree  on  fire ;  at  every  station  afterwards 
buckets  were  copiously  dashed  and  poured  (the  magnani- 
mous lady  saying  never  a  syllable  to  it)  ;  and  at  New- 
castle-on-Tyne,  they  flung  the  humbug  ne-plus  away 
altogether,  and  our  whole  party  into  common  carriages. 
Apart  from  the  burning  axle,  we  had  suffered  much  from 
dust  and  even  from  foul  air,  so  that  at  last  I  got  the  door 
opened,  and  sat  with  my  head  stretched  out  backward, 
into  the  wind.  This  had  alarmed  my  poor  wife,  lest  I 
should  tumble  out  altogether  ;  and  she  angrily  forbade  it, 
dear  loving  woman,  and  I  complied,  not  at  first  knowing 
why  she  was  angry.  This  and  Lady  A.  's  opening  her  door 
to  tell  us,  "  Here  is  Hinchinbrook  !  "  (a  long  time  before, 
and  with  something  of  pathos  traceable  in  her  cheery 
voice)  are  nearly  all  that  I  now  remember  of  the  base  and 
dirty  hurlyburly.     Lord  A.  had  preceded  by  some  days. 


462  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

stances,  my  engrossment  otherwise  (sunk  in  "  Friedrich," 
in  etc.  etc.  ;  far  less  exclusively,  very  far  less,  than  she 
supposed,  poor  soul  !) ; — and  owing  chiefly,  one  may 
fancy,  to  the  deeper  downbreak  of  her  own  poor  health, 
which  from  this  time,  as  I  now  see  better,  continued  its 
advance  upon  the  citadel,  or  nervous  system,  and  intrinsi- 
cally grew  worse  and  worse: — in  1856,  too  evidently,  to 
whatever  owing,  my  poor  little  darling  was  extremely 
miserable  !  Of  that  year  there  is  a  bit  of  private  diary, 
by  chance  left  unburnt  ;  found  by  me  since  her  death, 
and  not  to  be  destroyed,  however  tragical  and  sternly 
sad  are  parts  of  it.  She  had  written,  I  sometimes  knew 
(though  she  would  never  show  to  me  or  to  mortal  any 
word  of  them),  at  different  times,  various  bits  of  diary; 
and  w'as  even,  at  one  time,  upon  a  kind  of  autobiography 

(had  not  C ,  the  poor  C now  just  gone,  stept  into 

it  with  swine's  foot,  most  intrusively,  though  without  ill 
intention, — finding  it  unlocked  one  day  ; — and  produced 
thereby  an  instantaneous  burning  of  it ;  and  of  all  like  it 
which  existed  at  that  time).  Certain  enough,  she  wrote 
various  bits  of  diary  and  private  record,  unknown  to  me  : 
but  never  anything  so  sore,  downhearted,  harshly  dis- 
tressed and  sad  as  certain  pages  (right  sure  am  I  !)  which 
alone  remain  as  specimen  !  The  rest  are  all  burnt ;  no 
trace  of  them,  seek  where  I  may. 

A  very  sad  record  !  We  went  to  Scotland  soon  after  ; 
she  to  Auchtertool  (cousin  Walter's),  I  to  the  Gill  (sister 
Mary's). 

In  July  1856,  soon  after,  may  have  been  about  middle 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  463 

of  month,  we  went  to  Edinburgh  ;  a  blazing  day,  full  of 
dust  and  tumult,  which  I  still  very  well  remember  !  Lady 
Ashburton  had  got  for  herself  a  grand  "  Queen's  saloon  " 
or  tte-plus-ultra  of  railway  carriages  (made  for  the  Queen 
some  time  before)  costing  no  end  of  money.  Lady  sat,  or 
lay,  in  the  saloon.  A  common  six-seat  carriage,  imme- 
diately contiguous,  was  accessible  from  it.  In  this  the 
lady  had  insisted  we  should  ride,  with  her  doctor  and  her 
maid  ;  a  mere  partition,  with  a  door,  dividing  us  from 
her.  The  lady  was  very  good,  cheerful  though  much  un- 
well ;  bore  all  her  difficulties  and  disappointments  with 
an  admirable  equanimity  and  magnanimity  :  but  it  was 
physically  almost  the  uncomfortablest  journey  I  ever 
made.  At  Peterborough,  the  ne-plus-idtra  was  found  to 
have  its  axletree  on  fire ;  at  every  station  afterwards 
buckets  were  copiously  dashed  and  poured  (the  magnani- 
mous lady  saying  never  a  syllable  to  it)  ;  and  at  New- 
castle-on-Tyne,  they  flung  the  humbug  nc-plus  away 
altogether,  and  our  whole  party  into  common  carriages. 
Apart  from  the  burning  axle,  we  had  suffered  much  from 
dust  and  even  from  foul  air,  so  that  at  last  I  got  the  door 
opened,  and  sat  with  my  head  stretched  out  backward, 
into  the  wind.  This  had  alarmed  my  poor  wife,  lest  I 
should  tumble  out  altogether  ;  and  she  angrily  forbade  it, 
dear  loving  woman,  and  I  complied,  not  at  first  knowing 
why  she  was  angry.  This  and  Lady  A.  's  opening  her  door 
to  tell  us,  "  Here  is  Hinchinbrook  !  "  (a  long  time  before, 
and  with  something  of  pathos  traceable  in  her  cheery 
voice)  are  nearly  all  that  I  now  remember  of  the  base  and 
dirty  hurlyburly.     Lord  A.  had  preceded  by  some  days, 


464  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

and  was  waiting  for  our  train  at  Edinburgh  9.30  p.m.; 
hurlyburly  greater  and  dirtier  than  ever.  They  went 
for  Barry's  Hotel  at  once,  servants  and  all ;  no  time  to  in- 
form us  (officially),  that  we  too  were  their  guests.  But 
that,  too,  passed  well.  We  ordered  apartments,  refresh- 
ments of  our  own  there  (first  of  all  baths  ;  inside  of  my 
shirt-collar  was  as  black  as  ink  !),  and  before  the  refresh- 
ments were  ready,  we  had  a  gay  and  cordial  invitation 
etc.  etc.  ;  found  the  "  old  bear"  (Ellis)  in  their  rooms,  I 
remember,  and  Lord  A.  and  he  with  a  great  deal  to  say 
about  Edinburgh  and  its  people  and  phenomena.  Next 
morning  the  Ashburtons  went  for  Kinloch-Luichart  (fine 
hunting  seat  in  Ross-shire)  ;  and  my  dear  little  woman  to 
her  cousin's  at  Auchtertool,  where  I  remember  she  was 
much  soothed  by  their  kindness,  and  improved  considera- 
bly in  health  for  the  time.  The  day  after  seeing  her  set- 
tled there,  I  made  for  Annandale,  and  my  sister  Mary's  at 
the  Gill.  (Maggie  Welsh,  now  here  with  me,  has  helped 
in  adjusting  into  clearness  the  recollection  of  all  this.)  I 
remember  working  on  final  corrections  of  books  ii.  and 
iii.  of  "  Friedrich,"  and  reading  in  "Plato"  (translation, 
and  not  my  first  trial  of  him)  while  there.  My  darling's 
letters  I  remember,  too  (am  on  search  for  them  just  now), 
also  visits  from  sister  Jean  and  to  Dumfries  and  her,  silent 
nocturnal  rides  from  that  town  etc.,  and  generally  much 
riding  on  the  (Priestside)  Solway  Sands,  and  plenty  of 
sombre  occupation  to  my  thoughts. 

Late  on  in  autumn,  I  met  my  Jeannie  at  Kirkcaldy 
again  ;  uncomfortably  lodged,  both  of  us,  and  did  not 
loiter  (though  the  people  very  kind) ;  I  was  bound  for 


JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE.  465 

Ross-shire  and  the  Ashburtons  (miserable  journey  thither, 
sombre,  miserable  stay  there,  wet  weather,  sickly,  solitary 
mostly,  etc.  etc.) ;  my  wife  had  gone  to  her  aunts'  in 
Edinburgh  for  a  night  or  two  ;  to  the  Haddington  Miss 
Donaldsons  ;  and  in  both  places,  the  latter  especially,  had 
much  to  please  her,  and  came  away  with  the  resolution  to 
go  again. 

Next  year,  1857,  she  went  accordingly,  stayed  with  the 
Donaldsons  (eldest  of  these  old  ladies,  now  well  above 
eighty,  and  gone  stone  blind,  was  her  "  godmother,"  had 
been  at  Craigenputtoch  to  see  us,  the  dearest  of  old 
friends  my  wife  now  had).  She  was  at  Auchtertool  too, 
at  Edinburgh  with  her  aunts,  once  and  again  ;  but  the 
chief  element  was  "  Sunny  Bank,  Haddington,"  which 
she  began  with  and  ended  with ;  a  stay  of  some  length 
each  time.  Happy  to  her,  and  heart-interesting  to  a  high 
degree,  though  sorrowfully  involved  in  almost  constant 
bodily  pain.  It  was  a  tour  for  health,  urged  on  her  by  me 
for  that  end  ;  and  the  poor  little  darling  seemed  inwardly 
to  grudge  all  along  the  expense  on  herself  (generous  soul !) 
as  if  she  were  not  worth  money  spent,  though  money  was 
in  no  scarcity  with  us  now  !  I  was  printing  "  Friedrich," 
voll.  i.  and  ii.,  here;  totally  solitar)^,  and  recollect  her 
letters  of  that  tour  as  altogether  genial  and  delightful,  sad 
and  miserable  as  the  view  is  which  they  now  give  me  of 
her  endless  bodily  distresses  and  even  torments,  now  when 
I  read  them  again  after  nine  years,  and  what  has  befallen 
me  eleven  weeks  ago  ! 

Sunday,  July  8.  Began  writing  again  at  the  second 
line  of  this  page  ;  the  intermediate  time  has  been  spent  in 
30 


466  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

a  strenuous  search  for,  and  collection  of  all  her  letters  now 
discoverable  (by  Maggie  Welsh  and  me),  which  is  now 
completed,  or  nearly  so,  1843-2  the  earhest  found  (though 
surely  there  ought  to  be  others,  of  1837  etc.  ?),  and  some  of 
almostevery  year  onward  to  the  last.  They  are  exceedingly 
difficult  to  arrange,  not  having  in  general  any  date,  so  that 
place  often  enough,  and  day  and  even  year  throughout,  are 
mainly  to  be  got  by  the  Post  Office  stamp,  supported  by 
inference  and  enquiry  such  as  is  still  possible,  at  least  to  me. 
The  whole  of  yesterday  I  spent  in  reading  and  arran- 
ging the  letters  of  1857  ;  such  a  day's  reading  as  I  perhaps 
never  had  in  my  life  before.  What  a  piercing  radiancy  of 
meaning  to  me  in  those  dear  records,  hastily  thrown  off, 
full  of  misery,  yet  of  bright  eternal  love  ;  all  as  if  on  wings 
of  lightning,  tingling  through  one's  very  heart  of  hearts  ! 
Oh,  I  was  blind  not  to  see  how  brittle  was  that  thread  of 
noble  celestial  (almost  more  than  terrestrial)  life  ;  how 
much  it  was  all  in  all  to  me,  and  how  impossible  it  should 
long  be  left  with  me.  Her  sufferings  seem  little  short  of 
those  in  a  hospital  fever-ward,  as  she  painfully  drags  her- 
self about  ;  and  yet  constantly  there  is  such  an  electric 
shower  of  all-illuminating  brilliancy,  penetration,  recogni- 
tion, wise  discernment,  just  enthusiasm,  humour,  grace, 
patience,  courage,  love,  and  in  fine  of  spontaneous  noble- 
ness of  mind  and  intellect,  as  I  know  not  where  to  parallel ! 
I  have  asked  myself,  Ought  all  this  to  be  lost,  or  kept  for 
myself,  and  the  brief  time  that  now  belongs  to  me?  Can 
nothing  of  it  be  saved,  then,  for  the  worthy  that  still 
remain  among  these  roaring  myriads  of  profane  unworthy  ? 
I  really  must  consider  it  farther ;  and  already  I  feel  it  to 


JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE.  467 

have  become  uncertain  to  me  whether  at  least  this  poor 
notebook  ought  to  be  burnt  ere  my  decease,  or  left  to  its 
chances  among  my  survivors  ?  As  to  "  talent,"  epistolary 
and  other,  these  letters,  I  perceive,  equal  and  surpass 
whatever  of  best  I  know  to  exist  in  that  kind  ;  for  "  talent," 
"  genius,"  or  whatever  we  may  call  it,  what  an  evidence, 
if  my  little  woman  needed  that  to  me  !  Not  all  the  Sands 
and  Eliots  and  babbling  c^/^?/t' of  "celebrated  scribbling 
women"  that  have  strutted  over  the  world,  in  my  time, 
could,  it  seems  to  me,  if  all  boiled  down  and  distilled  to 
essence,  make  one  such  woman.  But  it  is  difficult  to 
make  these  letters  fairly  legible  ;  except  myself  there  is 
nobody  at  all  that  can  completely  read  them  as  they  now 
are.  They  abound  in  allusions,  very  full  of  meaning  in 
this  circle,  but  perfectly  dark  and  void  in  all  others. 
Coterie-spracJic,  as  the  Germans  call  it,  "family  circle 
dialect,"  occurs  every  line  or  two  ;  nobody  ever  so  rich  in 
that  kind  as  she  ;  ready  to  pick  up  every  diamond-spark, 
out  of  the  common  floor  dust,  and  keep  it  brightly  avail- 
able ;  so  that  hardly,  I  think,  in  any  house,  was  there 
more  of  coterie-sprache,  shining  innocently,  with  a  perpet- 
ual expressiveness  and  twinkle  generally  of  quiz  and  real 
humour  about  it,  than  in  ours.  She  mainly  was  the  cre- 
atress of  all  this  ;  unmatchable  for  quickness  (and  trueness) 
in  regard  to  it,  and  in  her  letters  it  is  continually  recurring  ; 
shedding  such  a  lambency  of  "  own  fireside"  over  every- 
thing, if  you  are  in  the  secret.  Ah  me,  ah  me  !  At 
least,  I  have  tied  up  that  bundle  (the  two  letters  touching 
on  "  Friedrich "  have  a  paper  round  them ;  the  first 
written  in  Edinburgh,  it  appears  now  !) 


468  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

July  9.  Day  again  all  spent  in  searching  and  sorting  a 
box  of  hers,  fall  of  strange  and  sad  memorials  of  her 
mother,  with  a  few  of  father  and  infant  self  (put  up  in 
1842),  full  of  poignant  meanings  to  her  then  and  to  me 
now.  Her  own  christening  cap  is  there  e.g. ;  the  lancet 
they  took  her  father's  blood  with  (and  so  killed  him,  as 
she  always  thought);  father's  door-plate;  "commission 
in  Perth  Fencibles,"  etc. ;  two  or  three  Christmas  notes 
of  mine,  which  I  could  not  read  without  almost  sheer 
weeping. 

It  must  have  been  near  the  end  of  October  1863, 
when  I  returned  home  from  my  ride,  weather  soft  and 
muddy,  humour  dreary  and  oppressed  as  usual  (nightmare 
"  Friedrich  "  still  pressing  heavily  as  ever),  but  as  usual 
also,  a  bright  little  hope  in  me  that  now  I  was  across  the 
muddy  element,  and  the  lucid  twenty  minutes  of  my  day 
were  again  at  hand.  To  my  disappointment  my  Jeannie 
was  not  here  ;  "  had  gone  to  see  her  cousin  in  the  city," — 
a  Mrs.  Godby,  widow  of  an  important  post-official,  once 
in  Edinburgh,  where  he  had  wedded  this  cousin,  and 
died  leaving  children  ;  and  in  virtue  of  whom  she  and 
they  had  been  brought  to  London  a  year  or  two  ago,  to 
a  fine  situation  as  "  matron  of  the  Post-office  establish- 
ment"  ("  forty  maids  under  her  etc.  etc.,  and  well  man- 
aged by  her  ")  in  St.  Martin's-le-Grand.  She  was  a  good 
enough  creature,  this  Mrs.  Godby  (Binnie  had  been  her 
Scotch  name  ;  she  is  now  Mrs.  Something-else,  and  very 
prosperous).  My  Jeannie,  in  those  early  times,  was 
anxious  to  be  kind  to  her  in  the  new  scene,  and  had  her 
often  here  (as  often  as,  for  my  convenience,  seemed  to 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  469 

the  loyal  heart  permissible),  and  was  herself,  on  calls  and 
Uttle  tea-visits,  perhaps  still  oftener  there.  A  perfectly 
harmless  Scotch  cousin,  polite  and  prudent  ;  almost 
prettyish  (in  spite  of  her  projecting  upper-teeth)  ;  with 
good  wise  instincts  ;  but  no  developed  intelligence  in  the 
articulate  kind.  Her  mother,  I  think,  was  my  mother- 
in-law's  cousin  or  connection  ;  and  the  young  widow 
and  her  London  friend  were  always  well  together.  This 
was,  I  believe,  the  last  visit  my  poor  wife  ever  made 
her;  and  the  last  but  two  she  ever  received  from  her, 
so  miserably  unexpected  were  the  issues  on  this  side  of 
the  matter ! 

We  had  been  at  the  Grange  for  perhaps  four  or  five 
weeks  that  autumn  ;  utterly  quiet,  nobody  there  besides 
ourselves  ;  Lord  Ashburt6n  being  in  the  weakest  state, 
health  and  life  visibly  decaying.  I  was  permitted  to  be 
perdue  till  three  o'clock  daily,  and  sat  writing  about 
Poland  I  remember  ;  mournful,  but  composed  and  digni- 
fiedly  placid  the  time  was  to  us  all.  My  Jeannie  did  not 
complain  of  health  beyond  wont,  except  on  one  point, 
that  her  right  arm  was  strangely  lame,  getting  lamer  and 
lamer,  so  that  at  last  she  could  not  "  do  her  hair  herself," 
but  had  to  call  in  a  maid  to  fasten  the  hind  part  for  her. 
I  remember  her  sadly  dispirited  looks,  when  I  came  into 
her  in  the  morning  with  my  enquiries  ;  "  No  sleep,"  too 
often  the  response  ;  and  this  lameness,  though  little  was 
said  of  it,  a  most  discouraging  thing.  Oh,  what  dis- 
couragements, continual  distresses,  pains  and  miseries  my 
poor  little  darling  had  to  bear  ;  remedy  for  them  nowhere, 
speech    about   them   useless,    best   to   be    avoided, —  as, 


470  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

except  on  pressure  from  myself,  it  nobly  was  !  This 
part  of  her  life-history  was  always  sad  to  me  ;  but  it  is 
tenfold  more  now,  as  I  read  in  her  old  letters,  and  grad- 
ually realise,  as  never  before,  the  continual  grinding 
wretchedness  of  it,  and  how,  like  a  winged  Psyche,  she 
so  soared  above  it,  and  refused  to  be  chained  or  degraded 
by  it.  "  Neuralgic  rheumatism,"  the  doctors  called  this 
thing  :  "  neuralgia  "  by  itself,  as  if  confessing  that  they 
knew  not  what  to  do  with  it.  Some  kind  of  hot  half-cor- 
rosive ointment  was  the  thing  prescribed  ;  which  did,  for 
a  little  while  each  time  reniove  the  pain  mostly,  the  lame- 
ness not ;  and  I  remember  to  have  once  seen  her  beautiful 
arm  (still  so  beautiful)  all  stained  with  spots  of  burning,  so 
zealous  had  she  been  in  trying,  though  with  small  faith 
in  the  prescription.  This  lasted  all  the  time  we  were 
at  the  Grange  ;  it  had  begun  before,  and  things  rather 
seemed  to  be  worsening  after  we  returned.  Alas,  I  sup- 
pose it  was  the  siege  of  the  citadel  that  was  now  going 
on  ;  disease  and  pain  had  for  thirty  or  more  years  been 
trampling  down  the  outworks,  were  now  got  to  the 
nerves,  to  the  citadel,  and  were  bent  on  storming  that. 

I  was  disappointed,  but  not  sorry  at  the  miss  of  my 
"  twenty  minutes  ;"  that  my  little  woman,  in  her  weak 
languid  state,  had  got  out  for  exercise,  was  gladness  ;  and 
I  considered  that  the  "twenty  minutes"  was  only  post- 
poned, not  lost,  but  would  be  repaid  me  presently  with 
interest.  After  sleep  and  dinner  (all  forgotten  now),  I 
remember  still  to  have  been  patient,  cheerfully  hopeful  ; 
"  she  is  coming,  for  certain,  and  will  have  something  nice 
to  tell    me  of  news  etc.,  as  she  always  has  !  "     In  that 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  47 1 

mood  I  lay  on  the  sofa,  not  sleeping,  quietly  waiting, 
perhaps  for  an  hour-and-half  more.  She  had  gone  in  an 
omnibus,  and  was  to  return  in  one.  At  this  time  she  had 
no  carriage.  With  great  difficulty  I  had  got  her  induced, 
persuaded  and  commanded,  to  take  two  drives  weekly  in 
a  hired  brougham  ("  more  difficulty  in  persuading  you  to 
go  into  expense,  than  other  men  have  to  persuade  their 
wives  to  keep  out  of  it  !  ")  On  these  terms  she  had 
agreed  to  the  two  drives  weekly,  and  found  a  great  bene- 
fit in  them  ;  but  on  no  terms  could  I  get  her  to  consent  to 
go,  herself,  into  the  adventure  of  purchasing  a  brougham 
etc.,  though  she  knew  it  to  be  a  fixed  purpose,  and  only 
delayed  by  absolute  want  of  time  on  my  part.  She  could 
have  done  it,  too,  employed  the  right  people  to  do  it, 
right  well,  and  knew  how  beneficial  to  her  health  it  would 
likely  be  :  but  no,  there  was  a  refined  delicacy  which 
would  have  perpetually  prevented  her  ;  and  my  "  time," 
literally,  was  Zero.  I  believe,  for  the  last  seven  years  of 
that  nightmare  "  Friedrich,"  I  did  not  write  the  smallest 
message  to  friends,  or  undertake  the  least  business,  ex- 
cept upon  plain  compulsion  of  necessity.  How  lucky  that, 
next  autumn,  I  did  actually,  in  spite  of  "  Friedrich,"  un- 
dertake this  of  the  brougham ;  it  is  a  mercy  of  heaven  to 
me  for  the  rest  of  my  life  !  and  oh  !  why  was  it  not  under- 
taken, in  spite  of  all  "  Friedrichs  "  and  nightmares,  years 
before  !  That  had  been  still  luckier,  perhaps  endlessly 
so  ?  but  that  was  not  to  be. 

The  visit  to  Mrs.  Godby  had  been  pleasant,  and  gone 
all  well  ;  but  now,  dusk  falling,  it  had  to  end — again  by 
omnibus  as  ill-luck  would  have  it.     Mrs.  G.   sent  one  of 


472  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

her  maids  as  escort.  At  the  corner  of  Cheapside  the  om- 
nibus was  waited  for  (some  excavations  going  on  near  by, 
as  for  many  years  past  they  seldom  cease  to  do)  ;  Chelsea 
omnibus  came  ;  my  darling  was  in  the  act  of  stepping  in 
(maid  stupid  and  of  no  assistance),  when  a  cab  came  rap- 
idly from  behind,  and,  forced  by  the  near  excavation, 
seemed  as  if  it  would  drive  over  her,  such  her  frailty  and 
want  of  speed.  She  desperately  determined  to  get  on 
the  flag  pavement  again  ;  desperately  leaped,  and  did  get 
upon  the  curbstone  ;  but  found  she  was  falling  over  upon 
the  flags,  and  that  she  would  alight  on  her  right  or  neu- 
ralgic arm,  which  would  be  ruin  ;  spasmodically  struggled 
against  this  for  an  instant  or  two  (maid  nor  nobody  assist- 
ing), and  had  to  fall  on  the  neuralgic  arm, — ruined  other- 
wise far  worse,  for,  as  afterwards  appeared,  the  muscles 
of  the  thigh-bone  or  sinews  attaching  them  had  been  torn 
in  that  spasmodic  instant  or  two  ;  and  for  three  days 
coming  the  torment  was  excessive,  while  in  the  right  arm 
there  was  no  neuralgia  perceptible  during  that  time,  nor 
any  very  manifest  new  injury  afterwards  either.  The  ca- 
lamity had  happened,  however,  and  in  that  condition,  my 
poor  darling,  "  put  into  a  cab  "  by  the  humane  people,  as 
her  one  request  to  them,  arrived  at  this  door, — "later" 
than  I  expected;  and  after  such  a  "drive  from  Cheap- 
side  "  as  may  be  imagined  ! 

T  remember  well  my  joy  at  the  sound  of  her  wheels 
ending  in  a  knock  ;  then  my  surprise  at  the  delay  in  her 
coming  up  ;  at  the  singular  silence  of  the  maids  when 
questioned  as  to  that.  Thereupon  my  rushing  down, 
finding  her  in  the  hands  of  Larkin  and  them,  in  the  great- 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  473 

est  agony  of  pain  and  helplessness  I  had  ever  seen  her  in. 
The  noble  little  soul,  she  had  determined  I  was  not  to  be 
shocked  by  it ;  Larkin  then  lived  next  door,  assiduous  to 
serve  us  in  all  things  (did  maps,  indexes,  even  joinerings 
etc.  etc.;)  him  she  had  resolved  to  charge  with  it;  alas, 
alas,  as  if  you  could  have  saved  me,  noble  heroine  and 
martyr  ?  Poor  Larkin  was  standing  helpless  ;  he  and  I 
carried  her  upstairs  in  an  armchair  to  the  side  of  her  bed, 
into  which  she  crept  by  aid  of  her  hands.  In  few  min- 
utes, Barnes  (her  wise  old  doctor)  was  here,  assured  me 
there  were  no  bones  broken,  no  joint  out,  applied  his  band- 
agings  and  remedies,  and  seemed  to  think  the  matter  was 
slighter  than  it  proved  to  be, — the  spasmodic  tearing  of 
sinews  being  still  a  secret  to  him. 

For  fifty  hours  the  pain  was  excruciating  ;  after  that  it 
rapidly  abated,  and  soon  altogether  ceased,  except  when 
the  wounded  limb  was  meddled  with  never  so  little.  The 
poor  patient  was  heroic,  and  had  throughout  been. 
Within  a  week,  she  had  begun  contriving  rope  machin- 
eries, leverages,  and  could  not  only  pull  her  bell,  but  lift 
and  shift  herself  about,  by  means  of  her  arms,  into  any 
coveted  posture,"  and  was,  as  it  were,  mistress  of  the  mis- 
chance. She  had  her  poor  little  room  arranged,  under 
her  eye,  to  a  perfection  of  beauty  and  convenience. 
Nothing  that  was  possible  to  her  had  been  omitted  (I 
remember  one  Httle  thing  the  apothecary  had  furnished  ; 
an  artificial  champagne  cask ;  turn  a  screw  and  your 
champagne  spurted  up,  and  when  you  had  a  spoonful, 
could  be  instantly  closed  down  ;  with  what  a  bright  face 
she  would  show  me  this  in  action  !)     In  fact  her  sick- 


474  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

room  looked  pleasanter  than  many  a  drawing-room  (all 
the  weakness  and  suffering  of  it  nobly  veiled  away) ;  the 
select  of  her  lady-friends  were  admitted  for  short  whiles 
and  liked  it  well ;  to  me,  whenever  I  entered,  all  spoke 
of  cheerfully  patient  hope,  the  bright  side  of  the  cloud 
always  assiduously  tuned  out  for  mc,  in  my  dreary  la- 
bours !  I  might  have  known,  too,  better  than  I  did,  that 
it  had  a  dark  side  withal  ;  sleeplessness,  sickliness,  utter 
weakness;  and  that  "the  silver  lining  "  was  due  to  my 
darling's  self  mainly,  and  to  the  inextinguishable  loyalty 
and  hope  that  dwelt  in  her.  But  I  merely  thought, 
"  How  lucky  beyond  all  my  calculations  !  " 

I  still  ri^ht  well  remember  the  niijht  when  her  bed- 
room  door  (double-door)  suddenly  opened  upon  me  into 
the  drawing-room,  and  she  came  limping  and  stooping  on 
her  staff,  so  gracefully  and  with  such  a  childlike  joy  and 
triumph,  to  irradiate  my  solitude.  Never  again  will  any 
such  bright  vision  of  gladdening  surprise  illuminate  the 
darkness  for  me  in  that  room  or  any  other  ?  She  was  in 
her  Indian  dressing-gown,  absolutely  beautiful,  leaning 
on  her  nibby  staff  (a  fine  hazel,  cut  and  polished  from  the 
Drumlanrig  woods,  by  some  friend  for  'my  service) ;  and 
with  such  a  kindly  brilliancy  and  loving  innocence  of  ex- 
pression, like  that  of  a  little  child,  unconquerable  by  weak- 
ness and  years  !  A  hot-tempered  creature,  too,  few  hot- 
ter, on  momentary  provocation  ;  but  what  a  fund  of  soft 
affection,  hope,  and  melodious  innocence  and  goodness, 
to  temper  all  that  lightning  !  I  doubt,  candidly,  if  I  ever 
saw  a  nobler  human  soul  than  this  which  (alas,  alas,  never 
rightly  valued  till   now  !)  accompanied   all  my  steps  for 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  475 

forty  years.  Blind  and  deaf  that  we  are  :  oh,  think,  if 
thou  yet  love  anybody  living,  wait  not  till  death  sweep 
down  the  paltry  little  dust-clouds  and  idle  dissonances  of 
the  moment,  and  all  be  at  last  so  mournfully  clear  and 
beautiful,  when  it  is  too  late  ! 

We  thought  all  was  now  come  or  fast  coming  right 
again,  and  that,  in  spite  of  that  fearful  mischance,  we 
should  have  a  good  winter,  and  get  our  dismal  "  misery 
of  a  book  "  doiie,  or  almost  done.  My  own  hope  and 
prayer  was  and  had  long  been  continually  that ;  hers  too, 
I  could  not  doubt,  though  hint  never  came  from  her  to 
that  effect,  no  hint  or  look,  much  less  the  smallest  word, 
at  any  time,  by  any  accident.  But  I  felt  well  enough 
how  it  was  crushing  down  her  existence,  as  it  was  crush- 
ing down  my  own;  and  the  thought  that  she  had  not 
been  at  the  choosing  of  it,  and  yet  must  suffer  so  for  it, 
was  occasionally  bitter  to  me.  But  the  practical  conclu- 
sion always  was,  "  Get  done  with  it,  get  done  with  it  ! 
For  the  saving  of  us  both,  that  is  the  one  outlook."  And, 
sure  enough,  I  did  stand  by  that  dismal  task  with  all  my 
time  and  all  my  means  ;  day  and  night  wrestling  with  it, 
as  with  the  ugliest  dragon,  which  blotted  out  the  day- 
light and  the  rest  of  the  world  to  me,  till  I  should  get  it 
slain.  There  was  perhaps  some  merit  in  this  ;  but  also,  I 
fear,  a  demerit.  Well,  well,  I  could  do  no  better  ;  sit- 
ting smoking  upstairs,  on  nights  when  sleep  was  impossi- 
ble, I  had  thoughts  enough  ;  not  permitted  to  rustle  amid 
my  rugs  and  wrappages  lest  I  awoke  her,  and  startled  all 
chance  of  sleep  away  from  her.  Weak  little  darling,  thy 
sleep  is  now  unbroken ;  still  and  serene  in  the  eternities 


47^  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

(as  the  Most  High  God  has  ordered  for  us),  and  nobody- 
more  in  this  world  will  wake  for  my  wakefulness. 

My  poor  woman  was  what  we  called  "  getting  well" 
for  several  weeks  still  ;  she  could  walk  very  httle,  indeed 
she  never  more  walked  much  in  this  world  ;  but  it  seems 
she  was  out  driving,  and  again  out,  hopefully  for  some 
time. 

Towards  the  end  of  November  (perhaps  it  was  in  De- 
cember), she  caught  some  whiff  of  cold,  which,  for  a  day 
or  two,  we  hoped  would  pass,  as  many  such  had  done  ; 
but  on  the  contrary,  it  began  to  get  worse,  soon  rapidly 
worse,  and  developed  itself  into  that  frightful  universal 
"  neuralgia,"  under  which  it  seemed  as  if  no  force  of 
human  vitality  would  be  able  long  to  stand.  "  Disease 
of  the  nerves  "  (poisoning  of  the  very  channels  of  sensa- 
tion) ;  such  was  the  name  the  doctors  gave  it ;  and  for 
the  rest,  could  do  nothing  farther  with  it  ;  well  had  they 
only  attempted  nothing  !  I  used  to  compute  that  they, 
poor  souls,  had  at  least  reinforced  the  disease  to  twice  its 
natural  amount,  such  the  pernicious  effect  of  all  their 
"  remedies  "  and  appliances,  opiates,  etc.  etc.  ;  which 
every  one  of  them  (and  there  came  many)  applied  anew, 
and  always  with  the  like  result.  Oh,  what  a  sea  of  agony 
my  darling  was  immersed  in,  month  after  month  !  Sleep 
had  fled.  A  hideous  pain,  of  which  she  used  to  say  that 
"  common  honest  pain,  were  it  cutting  off  one's  flesh  or 
sawing  of  one's  bones  would  be  a  luxury  in  comparison," 
seemed  to  have  begirdled  her,  at  all  moments  and  on 
every  side.  Her  intellect  was  clear  as  starlight,  and  con- 
tinued so  ;  the  clearest  intellect  among  us  all  ;  but  she 


I 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  477 

dreaded  that  this  too  must  give  way.  "  Dear,"  said  she 
to  me,  on  two  occasions,  with  such  a  look  and  tone  as  I 
shall  never  forget,  "  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  put 
me  into  a  mad-house,  however  this  go.  Do  you  promise 
me,  now?"  I  solemnly  did.  "Not  if  I  do  quite  lose 
my  wits  ? "  "  Never,  my  darling  ;  oh,  compose  thy 
poor  terrified  heart  !  "  Another  time,  she  punctually 
directed  me  about  her  burial ;  how  her  poor  bits  of  pos- 
sessions were  to  be  distributed,  this  to  one  friend,  that  to 
another  (in  help  of  their  necessities,  for  it  was  the  poor 
sort  she  had  chosen,  old  indigent  Haddington  figures). 
What  employment  in  the  solitary  night  watches,  on  her 
bed  of  pain  !     Ah  me,  ah  me! 

The  house  by  day,  especially,  was  full  of  confusion  ; 
Maggie  Welsh  had  come  at  my  solicitation,  and  took  a 
great  deal  of  patient  trouble  (herself  of  an  almost  obsti- 
nate placidity),  doing  her  best  among  the  crowd  of  doctors, 
sick- nurses,  visitors.  I  mostly  sat  aloft,  sunk,  or  endeav- 
ouring to  be  sunk,  in  work  ;  and,  till  evening,  only  visited 
the  sick-room  at  intervals,  first  thing  in  the  morning,  per- 
haps about  noon  again,  and  always  (if  permissible)  at  three 
P.M.,  when  riding  time  came,  etc.  etc.  If  permissible, 
for  sometimes  she  was  reported  as  "asleep"  when  I 
passed,  though  it  oftenest  proved  to  have  been  quies- 
cence of  exhaustion,  not  real  sleep.  To  this  hour  it  is 
inconceivable  to  me  how  I  could  continue  "working  ;  " 
as  I  nevertheless  certainly  for  much  the  most  part  did  ! 
About  three  times  or  so,  on  a  morning,  it  struck  me, 
with  a  cold  shudder  as  of  conviction,  that  here  did  lie 
death  ;  that  my  world  must  go  to  shivers,  down  to  the 


4/8  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

abyss;  and  that  "victory"  never  so  complete,  up  in  my 
garret,  would  not  save  her,  nor  indeed  be  possible  with- 
out her.  I  remember  my  morning  walks,  three  of  them 
or  so,  crushed  under  that  ghastly  spell.  But  again  I  said 
to  myself,  "No  man,  doctor  or  other,  knows  anything 
about  it.  There  is  still  what  appetite  there  was  ;  that  I 
can  myself  understand  ;  " — and  generally,  before  the  day 
was  done,  I  had  decided  to  hope  again,  to  keep  hoping 
and  working.  The  aftercast  of  the  doctors'  futile  opiates 
were  generally  the  worst  phenomena  ;  I  remember  her 
once  coming  out  to  the  drawing-room  sofa,  perhaps  about 
midnight  ;  decided  for  trying  that.  Ah  me,  in  vain,  pal- 
pably in  vain  ;  and  what  a  look  in  those  bonny  eyes, 
vividly  present  to  me  yet ;  unaidable,  and  like  to  break- 
one's  heart ! 

One  scene  with  a  Catholic  sick-nurse  I  also  remember 
well. 

A  year  or  two  before  this  time,  she  had  gone  with 
some  acquaintance  who  was  in  quest  of  sick-nurses  to  an 
establishment  under  Catholic  auspices,  in  Brompton 
somewhere  (the  acquaintance,  a  Protestant  herself,  ex- 
pressing her  "  certain  knowledge"  that  this  Catholic  was 
the  one  good  kind)  ; — where  accordingly  the  aspect  of 
matters,  and  especially  the  manner  of  the  old  French  lady 
who  was  matron  and  manager,  produced  such  a  favour- 
able impression,  that  I  recollect  my  little  woman  saying, 
"  If  I  need  a  sick-nurse,  that  is  the  place  I  will  apply  at." 
Appliance  now  was  made  ;  a  nun  duly  sent,  in  conse- 
quence : — this  was  in  the  early  weeks  of  the  illness ; 
household  sick-nursing  (Maggie's  and  that  of  the  maids 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  479 

alternately)  having  sufficed  till  now.  The  nurse  was  a 
good-natured  young  Irish  nun  ;  with  a  good  deal  of 
brogue,  a  tolerable  share  of  blarney  too,  all  varnished  to 
the  due  extent;  and,  for  three  nights  or  so,  she  answered 
very  well.  On  the  fourth  night,  to  our  surprise,  though 
we  found  afterwards  it  was  the  common  usage,  there  ap- 
peared a  new  nun,  new  and  very  different, — an  elderly 
French  "young  lady,"  with  broken  English  enough  for 
her  occasions,  and  a  look  of  rigid  earnestness,  in  fact  with 
the  air  of  a  life  broken  down  into  settled  despondency 
and  abandonment  of  all  hope  that  was  not  ultra-secular. 
An  unfavorable  change  ;  though  the  poor  lady  seemed 
intelligent,  well-intentioned  ;  and  her  heart-broken  aspect 
inspired  pity  and  good  wishes,  if  no  attraction.  She  com- 
menced by  rather  ostentatious  performance  of  her  noctur- 
nal prayers,  "  Beata  Maria,"  or  I  know  not  what  other 
Latin  stuff;  which  her  poor  patient  regarded  with  great 
vigilance,  though  still  with  what  charity  and  tolerance 
were  possible.  "  Y(5u  won't  understand  what  I  am  say- 
ing or  doing,"  said  the  nun  ;  "  don't  mind  me."  "  Per- 
haps I  understand  it  better  than  yourself,"  said  the  other 
(who  had  Latin  from  of  old)  and  did  "  mind  "  more  than 
was  expected.  The  dreary  hours,  no  sleep,  as  usual, 
went  on  ;  and  we  heard  nothing,  till  about  three  A.M. 
I  was  awakened  (I,  what  never  happened  before  or 
after,  though  my  door  was  always  left  slightly  ajar, 
and  I  was  right  above,  usually  a  deep  sleeper), — awak- 
ened by  a  vehement  continuous  ringing  of  my  poor  dar- 
ling's bell.  I  flung  on  my  dressing-gown,  awoke  INLiggic 
by  a  word,  and  hurried  down.     "  Put  away  that  woman  !  " 


48o  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

cried  my  poor  Jeannie  vehemently  ;  "  away,  not  to  come 
back."  I  opened  the  door  into  the  drawing-room  ; 
pointed  to  the  sofa  there,  which  had  wraps  and  pillows 
plenty  ;  and  the  poor  nun  at  once  withdrew,  looking  and 
murmuring  her  regrets  and  apologies.  "  What  was  she 
doing  to  thee,  my  own  poor  little  woman  ?  "  No  very 
distinct  answer  was  to  be  had  then  (and  afterwards  there 
was  always  a  dislike  to  speak  of  that  hideous  bit  of  time 
at  all,  except  on  necessity)  ;  but  I  learned  in  general, 
that  during  the  heavy  hours,  loaded,  every  moment  of 
them,  with  its  misery,  the  nun  had  gradually  come  for- 
ward with  ghostly  consolations,  ill  received,  no  doubt  ; 
and  at  length,  with  something  more  express,  about 
"  Blessed  Virgin,"  "  Agnus  Dei,"  or  whatever  it  might 
be  ;  to  which  the  answer  had  been,  "  Hold  your  tongue, 
I  tell  you  :  or  I  will  ring  the  bell !  "  Upon  which  the 
nun  had  rushed  forward  with  her  dreadfullest  supernal  ad- 
monitions, "impenitent  sinner,"  etc.,  and  a  practical  at- 
tempt to  prevent  the  ringing.  Which  only  made  it  more 
immediate  and  more  decisive.  The  poor  woman  ex- 
pressed to  Miss  Welsh  much  regret,  disappointment,  real 
vexation  and  self-blame ;  lay  silent,  after  that,  amid  her 
rugs ;  and  disappeared,  next  morning,  in  a  polite  and  soft 
manner :  never  to  reappear,  she  or  any  consort  of  hers. 
I  was  really  sorry  for  this  heavy-laden,  pious  or  quasi- 
pious  and  almost  broken-hearted  Frenchwoman, — though 
we  could  perceive  she  was  under  the  foul  tutelage  and 
guidance,  probably,  of  some  dirty  muddy-minded  semi- 
felonious  proselytising  Irish  priest.  But  there  was  no 
help  for  her  in  this  instance  ;  probably,  in  all  England, 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  48 1 

she  could  not  have  found  an  agonised  human  soul  more 
nobly  and  hopelessly  superior  to  her  and  her  poisoned 
gingerbread  "consolations."  This  incident  threw  sud- 
denly a  glare  of  strange  and  far  from  pleasant  light  over 
the  sublime  Popish  "  sister  of  charity"  movement  ;— and 
none  of  us  had  the  least  notion  to  apply  there  henceforth. 
The  doctors  were  many  ;  Dr.  Quain  (who  would  take 
no  fees)  the  most  assiduous  ;  Dr.  Blakiston  (ditto)  from 
St.  Leonard's,  express  one  time  ;  speaking  hope,  always, 
both  of  these,  and  most  industrious  to  help,  with  many 
more,  whom  I  did  not  even  see.  When  any  new  miracu- 
lous kind  of  doctor  was  recommended  as  such,  my  poor 
struggling  martyr,  conscious  too  of  grasping  at  mere 
straws,  could  not  but  wish  to  see  him  ;  and  he  came,  did 
his  mischief,  and  went  away.  We  had  even  (by  sanction 
of  Barnes,  and  indeed  of  sound  sense  never  so  scep- 
tical) a  trial  of  "  animal  magnetism  ;  "  two  magnetisers, 
first  a  man,  then  a  quack  woman  (evidently  a  conscious 
quack  I  perceived  her  to  be),  who  at  least  did  no  ill,  ex- 
cept entirely  disappoint  (if  that  were  much  an  exception). 
By  everybody  it  had  been  agreed  that  a  change  of  scene 
(as  usual,  when  all  else  has  failed)  was  the  thing  to  be 
looked  to  :  "  St.  Leonard's  as  soon  as  the  weather  will 
permit !  "  said  Dr.  Quain  and  everybody,  especially  Dr. 
Blakiston,  who  generously  offered  his  house  withal  ; 
"  definitely  more  room. than  we  need  !  "  said  the  sanguine 
B.  always  ;  and  we  dimly  understood  too,  from  his  wife 
(Bessie  Barnet,  an  old  inmate  here,  and  of  distinguished 
qualities  and  fortunes),  that  the  doctor  would  accept  re- 
muneration ;  though  this  proved  quite  a  mistake.  The 
31 


482  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

remuneration  he  had  expected  was  to  make  a  distinguished 
cure  over  the  heads  of  so  many  London  rivals.  Money 
for  the  use  of  two  rooms  in  his  house,  we  might  have 
anticipated,  but  did  not  altogether,  he  would  regard  with 
sovereign  superiority. 

It  was  early  in  March,  perhaps  March  2,  1864,  a  cold- 
blowing  damp  and  occasionally  raining  day,  when  the  flit- 
ting thither  took  effect.  Never  shall  I  see  again  so  sad 
and  dispiriting  a  scene  ;  hardly  was  the  da}'  of  her  last 
departure  for  Haddington,  departure  of  what  had  once 
been  she  (the  instant  of  which  they  contrived  to  hide  from 
me  here),  so  miserable  ;  for  she  at  least  was  now  suffering 
nothing,  but  safe  in  victorious  rest  for  evermore,  though 
then  beyond  expression  suffering.  There  was  a  railway 
invalid  carriage,  so  expressly  adapted,  so  etc.,  and  evi- 
dently costing  some  ten  or  twelve  times  the  common  ex- 
pense :  this  drove  up  to  the  door  ;  Maggie  and  she  to  go 
in  this.  Well  do  I  recollect  her  look  as  they  bore  her 
downstairs :  full  of  nameless  sorrow,  yet  of  clearness, 
practical  management,  steady  resolution  ;  in  a  low  small 
voice  she  gave  her  directions,  once  or  twice,  as  the  pro- 
cess went  on,  and  practically  it  was  under  her  wise  man- 
agement. The  invalid  carriage  was  hideous  to  look 
upon  ;  black,  low,  base-looking,  and  you  entered  it  by 
window,  as  if  it  were  a  hearse.  I  knew  well  what  she 
was  thinking;  but  her  eye  never  quailed,  she  gave  her 
directions  as  heretofore  ;  and,  in  a  minute  or  two,  we 
were  all  away.  Twice  or  oftener  in  the  journey,  I  visited 
Maggie  and  her  in  their  prison.  No  complaint :  but  the 
invalid  carriage,  in  which  I  doubt  if  you  could  actually 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  483 

sit  upright  (if  you  were  of  man's  stature  or  of  tall 
woman's),  was  evidently  a  catch-penny  humbug,  and  she 
freely  admitted  afterwards  that  she  would  never  enter  it 
again,  and  that  in  a  coupe  to  ourselves  she  would  have 
been  far  better.  At  St,  Leonard's,  I  remember,  there 
was  considerable  waiting  for  the  horses  that  should  have 
been  ready,  a  thrice  bleak  and  dreary  scene  to  us  all  (she 
silent  as  a  child) :  the  arrival,  the  dismounting,  the  ascent 
of  her  quasi-bier  up  Blakiston's  long  stairs,  etc.,  etc.  Ah 
me  !  Dr.  Blakiston  was  really  kind.  The  sea  was  hoarsely 
moaning  at  our  hand,  the  bleared  skies  sinking  into  dark- 
ness overhead.  Within  doors,  however,  all  was  really 
nice  and  well-provided  (thanks  to  the  skilful  Mrs.  B.) ; 
excellent  drawing-room,  and  sitting-room,  with  bed  for 
her ;  bedroom  upstairs  for  Maggie,  ditto ;  for  servant, 
within  call,  etc.  etc.  ;  all  clean  and  quiet.  A  kind  of  hope 
did  rise,  perhaps  even  in  her,  at  sight  of  all  this.  My 
mood,  when  I  bethink  me,  was  that  of  deep  misery  frozen 
torpid ;  singularly  dark  and  stony,  strange  to  me  now  ; 
due  in  part  to  the  "  Friedrich  "  incubus  then.  I  had  to 
be  home  again  that  night,  by  the  last  train  ;  miscalcu- 
lated the  distance,  found  no  vehicle  ;  and  never  in  my 
life  saved  a  train  by  so  infinitesimally  small  a  miss.  I 
had  taken  mournfully  tender  leave  of  my  poor  much- 
suffering  heroine  (speaking  hope  to  her,  when  I  could 
readily  have  lifted  up  my  voice  and  wept).  Lwas  to  re- 
turn in  so  many  days,  if  nothing  went  wrong  ;  at  once,  if 
anything  did.  I  lost  nothing  by  that  hurried  ride,  ex- 
cept, at  London  Station,  or  in  the  final  cab,  a  velvet  cap, 
of  her    old   making,  which   I   much    regretted,    and    still 


484  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

regret,  "I  will  make  you  another  cap,  if  I  get  better," 
said  she  lovingly,  at  our  next  meeting  ;  but  she  never 
did,  or  perhaps  well  could.  What  matter?  That  would 
have  made  me  still  sorrier,  had  I  had  it  by  me  now. 
Wae's  me,  wae's  me  ! ' 

I  was  twice  or  perhaps  thrice  at  St.  Leonard's  (War- 
rior Square,  Blakiston's  house  right  end  of  it  to  the  sea). 
Once  I  recollect  being  taken  by  Forster,  who  was  going 
on  a  kind  of  birthday  holiday  with  his  wife.  Blakiston 
spoke  always  in  a  tone  of  hope,  and  there  really  was 
some  improvement  ;  but,  alas,  it  was  small  and  slow. 
Deep  misery  and  pain  still  too  visible  :  and  all  we  could 
say  was,  "  We  must  try  St.  Leonard's  farther  ;  I  shall  be 
able  to  shift  down  to  you  in  May  !  "  My  little  darling 
looked  sweet  gratitude  upon  me  (so  thankful  always  for 
the  day  of  small  things  !)  but  heaviness,  sorrow,  and  want 
of  hope  was  written  on  her  face  ;  the  sight  filling  me  with 
sadness,  though  I  always  strove  to  be  of  B.'s  opinion. 
One  of  my  volumes  (4th,  I  conclude)  was  coming  out  at 
that  time  ;  during  the  Forster  visit,  I  remember  there 
was  some  review  of  this  volume,  seemingly  of  a  shallow 
impudent  description,  concerning  which  I  privately  ap- 
plauded F.'s  silent  demeanour,  and  not  B.'s  vocal,  one 
evening  at  F.'s  inn.  The  dates,  or  even  the  number  of 
f  these  sad  preliminary  visits,  I  do  not  now  recollect  :  they 
were  all  of  a  sad  and  ambiguous  complexion.  At  home, 
too,  there  daily  came  a  letter  from  Maggie  ;  but  this  in 
general,  though  it  strove  to  look  hopeful,  was  ambiguity's 

'  Wae  is  the  Scotch  adjective,  too.     Wae,  wae  ;  there  is  no  word  in  Eng- 
lish that  will  express  what  I  feel.     Wae  is  my  habitual  mood  in  these  months. 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  485 

own  self!  Much  driving  in  the  open  air,  appetite  where 
it  was,  sleep  at  least  ditto  ;  all  this,  I  kept  saying  to  my- 
self, must  lead  to  something  good. 

Dr.  Blakiston,  it  turned  out,  would  accept  no  payment 
for  his  rooms  ;  "  a  small  furnished  house  of  our  own  "  be- 
came the  only  outlook,  therefore  ;  and  was  got,  and  en- 
tered into,  sometime  in  April,  some  weeks  before  my 
arrival  in  May.  Brother  John,  before  this,  had  come  to 
visit  me  here  ;  ran  down  to  St.  Leonard's  one  day  :  and, 
I  could  perceive,  was  silently  intending  to  pass  the  sum- 
mer with  us  at  St.  Leonard's.  He  did  so,  in  an  innocent 
self-soothing,  kindly  and  harmless  way  (the  good  soul,  if 
good  wishes  would  always  suffice  !)  and  occasionally  was  of 
some  benefit  to  us,  though  occasionally  also  not.  It  was  a 
quiet  sunny  day  of  May  when  we  went  down  together  ;  I 
read  most  of  "  Sterne's  Life  "  (just  out,  by  some  Irish- 
man, named  Fitz-something)  ;  looked  out  on  the  old 
Wilhelmus  Conquestor  localities  ;  on  Lewes,  for  one 
thing  (de  "  Le  Ouse," — Ouse  the  dirty  river  there  is  still 
named);  on  Pevensey,  Bexhill,  etc.,  with  no  unmixed 
feeling,  yet  not  with  absolute  misery,  as  we  rolled  along. 
I  forget  if  Maggie  Welsh  was  still  there  at  St.  Leonard's. 
My  darling,  certain  enough,  came  down  to  meet  us,  at- 
tempting to  sit  at  dinner  (by  my  request,  or  wish  already 
signified)  ;  but  too  evidently  it  would  not  do.  Mary 
Craik  was  sent  for  (from  Belfast)  instead  of  Maggie  Welsh 
who  "  was  wanted  "  at  Liverpool,  and  tiid  then  or  a  few 
days  afterwards  return  thither,  Mary  Craik  succeeding, 
who  was  very  gentle,  quiet,  prudent,  and  did  well  in  her 
post. 


486  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

I  had  settled  all  my  book  affairs  the  best  I  could.  I 
got  at  once  installed  into  my  poor  closet  on  the  ground- 
floor,  with  window  to  the  north  (keep  that  open,  and,  the 
door  ajar,  there  will  be  fresh  air  !)  Book  box  was  at 
once  converted  into  book  press  (of  rough  deal,  but 
covered  with  newspaper  veneering  where  necessary),  and 
fairly  held  and  kept  at  hand  the  main  books  I  wanted  ; 
camp-desk,  table  or  two,  drawer  or  two,  were  put  in  im- 
mediate seasonablest  use.  In  this  closet  there  was  hardly 
room  to  turn  ;  and  I  felt  as  if  crushed,  all  my  apparatus 
and  I,  into  a  stocking,  and  there  bidden  work.  But  I 
really  did  it  withal,  to  a  respectable  degree,  printer  never 
pausing  for  me,  work  daily  going  on  ;  and  this  doubtless 
was  my  real  anchorage  in  that  sea  of  trouble,  sadness  and 
confusion,  for  the  two  months  it  endured.  I  have  spoken 
elsewhere  of  my  poor  darling's  hopeless  wretchedness, 
which  daily  cut  my  heart,  and  might  have  cut  a  very 
stranger's  :  those  drives  with  her  ("  daily,  one  of  your 
drives  is  with  me,"  and  I  saw  her  gratitude,  poor  soul, 
looking  out  through  her  despair ;  and  sometimes  she 
would  try  to  talk  to  me  about  street  sights,  persons,  etc. ; 
and  it  was  like  a  bright  lamp  flickering  out  into  extinc- 
tion again)  ;  drives  mainly  on  the  streets  to  escape  the 
dust,  or  still  dismaller  if  we  did  venture  into  the  haggard, 
parched  lanes,  and  their  vile  whirlwinds.  Oh,  my  dar- 
ling, I  would  have  cut  the  universe  in  two  for  thee,  and 
this  was  all  I  had  to  share  with  thee,  as  we  were  ! 

St.  Leonard's,  now  that  I  look  back  upon  it,  is  very 
odious  to  my  fancy,  yet  not  without  points  of  interest.  I 
rode  a  great  deal  too,  two  hours  and  a  half  my  lowest 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  487 

stint ;  bathed  also,  and  remember  the  bright  morning  air, 
bright  Beachy  Head  and  everlasting  sea,  as  things  of 
blessing  to  me  ;  the  old  lanes  of  Sussex  too*  old  cottages, 
peasants,  old  vanishing  ways  of  life,  were  abundantly 
touching  ;  but  the  new  part,  and  it  was  all  getting  "  new," 
was  uniformly  detestable  and  even  horrible  to  me.  Noth- 
ing but  dust,  noise,  squalor,  and  the  universal  tearing  and 
digging  as  if  of  gigantic  human  swine,  not  finding  any 
worm  or  roots  that  would  be  useful  to  them  !  The  very 
"  houses  "  they  were  building,  each  "  a  congeries  of  rot- 
ten bandboxes  "  (as  our  own  poor  "  furnished  house  "  had 
taught  me,  if  I  still  needed  teaching),  were  "  built "  as  if 
for  nomad  apes,  not  for  men.  The  "moneys"  to  be 
realised,  the  etc.  etc.,  does  or  can  God's  blessing  rest  on 
all  that  ?  My  dialogues  with  the  dusty  sceneries  there 
(Fairlight,  Crowhurst,  Battle,  Rye  even,  and  Winchelsea), 
with  the  novelties  and  the  antiquities,  were  very  sad  for 
most  part,  and  very  grim  ;  here  and  there  with  a  kind  of 
wild  interest  too.  Battle  I  did  arrive  at,  one  evening, 
through  the  chaotic  roads  ;  Battle,  in  the  rustle  or  silence 
of  incipient  dusk,  was  really  affecting  to  me  ;  and  I  saw 
to  be  a  good  post  offence  for  King  Harold,  and  wondered 
if  the  Bastard  did  "  land  at  Pevensey,"  or  not  near  Hast- 
ings somewhere  (Bexhill  or  so  ?)  and  what  the  march- 
ings and  preliminaries  had  really  been.  Faithful  study, 
continued  for  long  years  or  decades,  upon  the  old  Nor- 
man romances  etc.,  and  upon  the  ground,  would  still  tell 
some  fit  person,  I  believe  ;  but  there  shriek  the  railway 
"  shares  "  at  such  and  such  a  premium  ;  let  us  make  for 
home  !     My  brother,  for  a  few  times  at  first,  used  to  ac- 


488  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

company  me  on  those  rides,  but  soon  gave  in  (not  being 
bound  to  it  like  me)  ;  and  Noggs  '  and  I  had  nothing  for 
it  but  sohtary  contemplation  and  what  mute  "  dialogue" 
with  nature  and  art  we  could  each  get  up  for  himself.  I 
usually  got  home  towards  nine  P.M.  (half-past  eight  the 
rigorous  rule) ;  and  in  a  grey  dusty  evening,  from  some 
windy  hill-tops,  or  in  the  intricate  old  narrow  lanes  of  a 
thousand  years  ago,  one's  reflections  were  apt  to  be  of 
a  sombre  sort.  My  poor  little  Jeannie  (thanks  to  her,  the 
loving  one  !)  would  not  fail  to  be  waiting  for  me,  and  sit 
trying  to  talk  or  listen,  while  I  had  tea  ;  trying  her  best, 
sick  and  weary  as  she  was  ;  but  always  very  soon  with- 
drew after  that ;  quite  worn  down  and  longing  for  solitary 
silence,  and  even  a  sleepless  bed,  as  was  her  likeliest 
prospect  for  most  part.  How  utterly  sad  is  all  that  !  yes  ; 
and  there  is  a  kind  of  devout  blessing  in  it  too  (so  nobly 
was  it  borne,  and  conquered  in  a  sort)  ;  and  I  would  not 
have  it  altered  now,  after  what  has  come,  if  I  even  could. 

We  lived  in  the  place  called  "Marina"  (what  a 
name !)  almost  quite  at  the  west  end  of  St.  Leonard's  ;  a 
new  house  (bearing  marks  of  thrifty,  wise,  and  modestly- 
elegant  habits  in  the  old  lady  owners  just  gone  from  it) ; 
and  for  the  rest,  decidedly  the  worst  built  house  I  have 
ever  been  within.  A  scandal  to  human  nature,  it  and  its 
fellows  ;  which  are  everywhere,  and  are  not  objected  to 
by  an  enlightened  public,  as  appears  !  No  more  of  it, 
except  our  farewell  malison  ;  and  pity  for  the  poor  old 
ladies  who  perhaps  are  still  there  ! 

My  poor  suffering  woman  had  at  first,  for  some  weeks, 

'  Carlyle's  house. 


I 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  489 

a  vestige  of  improvement,  or  at  least  of  new  hope  and 
alleviation  thereby.  She  "  slept  "  (or  tried  for  sleep)  in 
the  one  tolerable  bedroom  ;  second  floor,  fronting  the 
sea,  darkened  and  ventilated,  made  the  tidiest  we  could  ; 
Miss  Craik  slept  close  by.  I  remember  our  settlings  for 
the  night  ;  my  last  journey  up,  to  sit  a  few  minutes, 
and  see  that  the  adjustments  were  complete  ;  a  "  Nun's 
lamp  "  was  left  glimmering  within  reach.  My  poor  little 
woman  strove  to  look  as  contented  as  she  could,  and^  to 
exchange  a  few  friendly  words  with  me  as  our  last  for  the 
night.  Then  in  the  morning,  there  sometimes  had  been 
an  hour  or  two  of  sleep  ;  what  news  for  us  all  '  And 
even  brother  John,  for  a  while,  was  admitted  to  step  up 
and  congratulate,  after  breakfast.  But  this  didn't  last ; 
hardly  into  June,  even  in  that  slight  degree.  And  the 
days  were  always  heavy  ;  so  sad  to  her,  so  painful,  dreary 
without  hope.  What  a  time,  even  in  my  reflex  of  it ! 
Dante's  Purgatory  I  could  now  liken  it  to  ;  both  of  us,  es- 
pecially my  loved  one  by  me,  "  bent  like  corbels,"  under 
our  unbearable  loads  as  we  wended  on,  yet  in  me  always 
with  a  kind  of  steady  glimmering  hope  !  Dante's  Purga- 
tory, not  his  Hell,  for  there  was  a  sacred  blessedness  in 
it  withal  ;  not  wholly  the  society  of  devils,  but  among 
their  hootings  and  tormentings  something  still  pointing 
afar  off  towards  heaven  withal.     Thank  God  ! 

At  the  beginning  of  June,  she  still  had  the  feeling 
we  were  better  here  than  elsewhere  ;  by  her  direction,  I 
warned  the  people  we  would  not  quit  at  "  the  end  of 
June,"  as  had  been  bargained,  but  "  of  July,"  as  was  also 
within    our  option,  on  due    notice  given.     End  of  June 


490  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE, 

proved  to  be  the  time,  all  the  same  ;  the  old  ladies  (justly) 
refusing  to  revoke,  and  taking  their  full  claim  of  money, 
poor  old  souls  ;  very  polite  otherwise.  Middle  of  June 
had  not  come  when  that  bedroom  became  impossible  ; 
"  roaring  of  the  sea,"  once  a  lullaby,  now  a  little  too  loud, 
on  some  high-tide  or  west  wind,  kept  her  entirely  awake. 
I  exchanged  bedrooms  with  her  ;  "  sea  always  a  lullaby 
to  me  ;  "  but,  that  night,  even  I  did  not  sleep  one  wink  ; 
upon  which  John  exchanged  with  me,  who  lay  to  rear- 
ward, as  I  till  then  had  done.  Rearward  we  looked  over 
a  Mews  (from  this  room)  ;  from  her  now  room,  into  the 
paltry  little  "  garden  ;  "  overhead  of  both  were  clay  cliffs, 
multifarious  dog  and  cock  establishments  (unquenchable 
by  bribes  paid),  now  and  then  stray  troops  of  asses,  etc. 
etc.;  what  a  lodging  for  poor  sufferers  !  Sleep  became 
worse  and  worse  ;  we  spoke  of  shifting  to  Bexhill  ;  "  fine 
airy  house  to  be  let  there  "  (fable  when  we  went  to  look)  ; 
then  some  quiet  old  country  inn  ?  She  drove  one  day 
(John  etc.  escorting)  to  Battle,  to  examine  ;  nothing  there, 
or  less  than  nothing.  Chelsea  home  was  at  least  quiet, 
wholesomely  aired  and  clean  ;  but  she  had  an  absolute 
horror  of  her  old  home  bedroom  and  drawing-room,  where 
she  had  endured  such  torments  latterly.  "  We  will  new- 
paper  them,  re-arrange  them,"  said  Miss  Bromley  ;  and 
this  was  actually  done  in  August  following.  That  "  new 
papering "  was  somehow  to  me  the  saddest  of  specula- 
tions. "  Alas,  darling,  is  that  all  we  can  do  for  thee  ?  " 
The  weak  weakest  of  resources ;  and  yet  what  other 
had  we?  As  June  went  on,  things  became  worse  and 
worse.     The  sequel  is  mentioned  elsewhere.     I  will  here 


i 


I 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  49I 

put    down    only  the    successive    steps    and    approximate 
dates  of  it. 

June  29.  After  nine  nights  totally  without  sleep  she 
announced  to  us,  with  a  fixity  and  with  a  clearness  all  her 
own,  that  she  would  leave  this  place  to-morrow  for  Lon- 
don ;  try  there,  not  in  her  own  house,  but  in  Mrs.  Forster's 
(Palace  Gate  house,  Kensington),  which  was  not  yet  hor- 
rible to  her.  June  30  (John  escorting),  she  set  off  by  the 
noon  train.  Miss  Bromley  had  come  down  to  see  her  ; 
could  only  be  allowed  to  see  her  in  stepping  into  the  train, 
so  desperate  was  the  situation,  the  mood  so  adequate  to 
it ;  a  moment  never  to  be  forgotten  by  me  !  How  I 
"  worked  "  afterwards  that  day  is  not  on  record.  I  dimly 
remember  walking  back  with  Miss  Bromley  and  her  lady- 
friend  to  their  hotel ;  talking  to  them  (as  out  of  the  heart 
of  icebergs);  and  painfully  somehow  sinking  into  icy  or 
stony  rest,  worthy  of  oblivion. 

At  Forster's  there  could  hardly  be  a  more  dubious 
problem.  My  poor  wandering  martyr  did  get  snatches 
of  sleep  there  ;  but  found  the  room  so  noisy,  the  scene  so 
foreign,  etc.,  she  took  a  farther  resolution  in  the  course 
of  the  night  and  its  watchings.  Sent  for  John,  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  ;  bade  him  get  places  in  the  night- 
train  for  Annandale  (my  sister  Mary's ;  all  kindness  poor 
Mary,  whom  she  always  liked)  ;  "  The  Gill  ;  we  are  not 
yet  at  the  end  there  ;  and  Nithsdale  too  is  that  way  !  " 
John  failed  not,  I  dare  say,  in  representations,  counter- 
considerations,  but  she  was  coldly  positive  ;  and  go  they 
did,  express  of  about  330  miles.  Poor  Mary  was  loyal 
kindness  itself ;  poor  means  made  noble  and   more  than 


492  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

opulent  by  the  wealth  of  love  and  ready  will  and  Inven- 
tion. I  was  seldom  so  agreeably  surprised  as  by  a  letter 
in  my  darling's  own  hand,  narrating  the  heads  of  the  ad- 
venture briefly,  with  a  kind  of  defiant  satisfaction,  and 
informing  me  that  she  had  slept  that  first  Gill  night  for^ 
almost  nine  hours  !  Whose  joy  like  ours,  durst  we  have 
hoped  it  would  last,  or  even  though  we  durst  not  !  She 
stayed  about  a  week  still  there  ;  Mary  and  kindred  eager 
to  get  her  carriages  (rather  helplessly  in  that  particular), 
to  do  and  attempt  for  her  whatever  was  possible  ;  but  the 
success,  in  sleep  especially,  grew  less  and  less.  In  about 
a  week  she  went  on  to  Nithsdale,  to  Dr.  and  Mrs,  Russell, 
and  there,  slowly  improving,  continued.  Improvement 
pretty  constant  ;  fresh  air,  driving,  silence,  kindness. 
By  the  time  Mary  Craik  had  got  me  flitted  home  to 
Chelsea,  and  herself  went  for  Belfast,  all  this  had  steadily 
begun  ;  and  there  were  regular  letters  from  her  etc.,  and 
I  could  work  here  with  such  an  alleviation  of  spirits  as  had 
long  been  a  stranger  to  me.  In  August  (rooms  all 
"  new-papered,"  poor  little  Jeannie  !)  she  came  back  to 
me,  actually  there  in  the  cab  (John  settling)  when  I  ran 
downstairs,  looking  out  on  me  with  the  old  kind  face,  a 
little  graver,  I  might  have  thought,  but  as  quiet,  as  com- 
posed and  wise  and  good  as  ever.  This  was  the  end,  I 
might  say,  of  by  far  the  most  tragic  part  of  our  tragedy  : 
Act  5th,  though  there  lay  death  in  it,  was  nothing  like  so 
unhappy. 

The  last  epoch  of  my  darling's  life  is  to  be  defined  as 
almost  happy  in  comparison  !  It  was  still  loaded  with  in- 
firmities,   bodily   weakness,    sleeplessness,    continual    or 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  493 

almost  continual  pain,  and  weary  misery,  so  far  as  body 
was  concerned  ;  but  her  noble  spirit  seemed  as  if  it  now- 
had  its  wings  free,  and  rose  above  all  that  to  a  really  sin- 
gular degree.  The  battle  was  over,  and  we  were  sore 
wounded  ;  but  the  battle  was  over,  and  well.  It  was  re- 
marked by  everybody  that  she  had  never  been  observed 
so  cheerful  and  bright  of  mind  as  in  this  last  period. 
The  poor  bodily  department,  I  constantly  hoped  too  was 
slowly  recovering  ;  and  that  there  would  remain  to  us  a 
"  sweet  farewell  "  of  sunshine  after  such  a  day  of  rains  and 
storms,  that  would  still  last  a  blessed  while,  all  my  time 
at  least,  before  the  end  came.  And,  alas  !  it  lasted  only 
about  twenty  months,  and  ended  as  I  have  seen.  It  is 
beautiful  still,  all  that  period,  the  death  very  beautiful  to 
me,  and  will  continue  so  ;  let  me  not  repine,  but  patiently 
bear  what  I  have  got  !  While  the  autumn  weather  con- 
tinued good  she  kept  improving.  I  remember  mornings 
when  I  found  her  quite  wonderfully  cheerful,  as  I  looked 
in  upon  her  bedroom  in  passing  down,  a  bright  ray  of 
mirth  in  what  she  would  say  to  me,  inexpressibly  pathe- 
tic, shining  through  the  wreck  of  such  storms  as  there 
had  been.  How  could  I  but  hope  ?  It  was  an  inestima- 
ble mercy  to  me  (as  I  often  remark)  that  I  did  at  last 
throw  aside  everything  for  a  few  days,  and  actually  get  her 
fthat  poor  brougham.  Never  was  soul  more  grateful  for 
so  small  a  kindness  ;  which  seemed  to  illuminate,  in  some 
sort,  all  her  remaining  days  for  her.  It  was,  indeed,  use- 
ful and  necessary  as  a  means  of  health  ;  but  still  more 
precious,  I  doubt  not,  as  a  mark  of  my  regard  for  her. 
Ah  me  !  she  never  knew  fully,  nor  could  I  show  her  in 


494  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

my  heavy-laden  miserable  life,  how  much  I  had  at  all 
times  regarded,  loved,  and  admired  her.  No  teUing  of 
her  now.  "  Five  minutes  more  of  your  dear  company  in 
this  world.  Oh  that  I  had  you  yet  for  but  five  minutes, 
to  tell  you  all !  "  this  is  often  my  thought  since  April  2i. 

She  was  surely  very  feeble  in  the  Devonshire  time 
(March  etc.,  1865)  ;  but  I  remember  her  as  wonderfully 
happy.  She  had  long  dialogues  with.  Lady  A.  ;  used  to 
talk  so  prettily  with  me,  when  I  called,  in  passing  up  to 
bed  and  down  from  it ;  she  made  no  complaint,*  went 
driving  daily  through  the  lanes — sometimes  regretted  her 
own  poor  brougham  and  "  Bellona  "  (as  "  still  more  one's 
own  "),  and  contrasted  her  situation  as  to  carriage  conve- 
nience with  that  of  far  richer  ladies.  "  They  have  30,000/. 
a  year,  cannot  command  a  decent  or  comfortable  vehicle 
here  ;  their  vehicles  all  locked  up,  400  miles  off,  in  these 
wanderings  ;  while  we —  !  "  The  Lady  Ashburton  was 
kindness  itself  to  her  ;  and  we  all  came  up  to  town  to- 
gether, rather  in  improved  health  she,  I  not  visibly  so, 
being  now  vacant  and  on  the  collapse,  which  is  yet  hardly 
over,  or  fairly  on  the  turn.  Will  it  ever  be?  I  have 
sometimes  thought  this  dreadful  unexpected  stroke  might 
perhaps  be  providential  withal  upon  me  ;  and  that  there 
lay  some  little  work  to  do,  under  changed  conditions,  be- 
fore I  died.      God  enable  me,  if  so  ;   God  knows. 

In  Nithsdale,  last  year,  it  is  yet  only  fourteen  months 
ago  (ah  me  !)  how  beautiful  she  was  ;  for  three  or  four 
half  or  quarter-days  together,  how  unique  in  their  sad 
charm  as  I  now  recall  them  from  beyond  the  grave  !  That 
day  at  Russell's,  in  the  garden  etc.  at  Holmhill ;  so  poor- 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  495 

\y  she,  forlorn  of  outlook  one  would  have  said  ;  (one  out- 
look ahead,  that  of  getting  me  this  room  trimmed  up,  the 
darling  ever-loving  soul  !)  and  yet  so  lively,  sprightly 
even,  for  my  poor  sake.  "  Sir  William  Gomm  "  (old 
Peninsular  and  Indian  General,  who  had  been  reading 
"  Friedrich"  when  she  left),  what  a  sparkle  that  was  !  her 
little  slap  on  the  table,  and  arch  look,  when  telling  us  of 
him  and  it  !  And  her  own  right  hand  was  lame,  she  had 
only  her  left  to  slap  with.  I  cut  the  meat  for  her,  on  her 
plate,  that  day  at  dinner,  and  our  drive  to  the  station  at 
seven  P.M.  so  sweet,  so  pure  and  sad.  "  We  must  re- 
trench, dear  !  ''  (in  my  telling  her  of  some  foolish  Bank 
adventure  with  the  draft  I  had  left  her  ;)  "  retrench,"  oh 
dear,  oh  dear.  Amongst  the  last  things  she  told  me  that 
evening  was  with  deep  sympathy  ;  "  Mr.  Thomson "  (a 
Virginian  who  sometimes  came)  "  called  one  night ;  he 
says  there  is  little  doubt  they  will  hang  President  Davis  !  " 
Upon  which  I  almost  resolved  to  w^'ite  a  pamphlet  upon 
it,  had  not  I  myself  been  so  ignorant  about  the  matter,  so 
foreign  to  the  whole  abominable  fratricidal  "war"  (as 
they  called  it ;  "  self-murder  of  a  million  brother  English- 
men, for  the  sake  of  sheer  phantasms,  and  totally  false 
theories  upon  the  Nigger,"  as  I  had  reckoned  it).  In  a 
day  or  two  I  found  I  could  not  enter  upon  that  thrice  ab- 
ject Nigger-delirium  (viler  to  me  than  old  witchcraft,  or 
the  ravings  of  John  of  Miinster,  considerably  viler),  and 
that  probably  I  should  do  poor  Davis  nothing  but  harm. 

The  second  day,  at  good  old  Mrs.  Ewart's,  of  Nith- 
bank,  is  still  finer  to  me.  Waiting  for  me  with  the  car- 
riage ;   "  Better,  dear,  fairly  better  since  I  shifted  to  Nith- 


496  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

bank!"  the  "dinner"  ahead  there  (to  my  horror),  her 
cautious  charming  preparation  of  me  for  it ;  our  calls 
at  Thornhill  (new  servant  "Jessie,"  admiring  old  tailor 
women — no,  they  were  not  of  the  Shankland  kind — 
wearisome  old  women,  whom  she  had  such  an  interest  in, 
almost  wholly  for  my  sake) ;  then  our  long  drive  through 
the  Drumlanrig  woods,  with  such  talk  from  her  (careless 
of  the  shower  that  fell  battering  on  our  hood  and  apron  ; 
in  spite  of  my  habitual  dispiritment  and  helpless  gloom 
all  that  summer,  I  too  was  cheered  for  the  time.  And 
then  the  dinner  itself,  and  the  bustling  rustic  company, 
all  this,  too,  was  saved  by  her ;  with  a  quiet  little  touch 
here  and  there,  she  actually  turned  it  into  something  of 
artistic,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  everybody.  I  was  at  two 
or  perhaps  three  dinners  after  this,  along  with  her  in 
London.  I  partly  remarked,  what  is  now  clearer  to  me, 
with  what  easy  perfection  she  had  taken  her  position  in 
these  things,  that  of  a  person  recognized  for  quietly 
superior  if  she  cared  to  be  so,  and  also  of  a  suffering  acred 
woman,  accepting  her  age  and  feebleness  with  such  a 
grace,  polite  composure  and  simplicity  as — as  all  of  you 
might  imitate,  impartial  bystanders  would  have  said ! 
The  minister's  assistant,  poor  young  fellow,  was  gently 
ordered  out  by  her  to  sing  me,  "  Hame  cam'  our  gudeman 
at  e'en,"  which  made  him  completely  happy,  and  set  the 
dull  drawing-room  all  into  illumination  till  tea  ended. 
He,  the  assistant,  took  me  to  the  station  (too  late  for  her 
that  evening). 

The  third  day  was  at  Dumfries  ;  sister  Jean's  and  the 
railway  station :  more  hampered  and  obstructed,  but  still 


I 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  497 

good  and  beautiful  as  ever  on  her  part.  Dumb  Turner, 
at  the  station  etc.  ;  evening  falHng,  ruddy  opulence  of 
sky,  how  beautiful,  how  brief  and  wae  !  The  fourth  time 
was  only  a  ride  from  Dumfries  to  Annan,  as  she  went 
home,  sad  and  afflictive  to  me,  seeing  such  a  journey 
ahead  for  her  (and  nothing  but  the  new  "Jessie"  as 
attendant,  some  carriages  off;)  I  little  thought  it  was  to 
be  the  last  bit  of  railwaying  we  did  together.  These,  I 
believe,  were  all  our  meetings  in  Scotland  of  last  year. 
One  day  I  stood  watching  "  her  train  "  at  the  Gill,  as  ap- 
pointed ;  brother  Jamie  too  had  been  summoned  over  by 
her  desire ;  but  at  Dumfries  she  felt  so  weak  in  the  hot 
day,  she  could  only  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  and  sadly  send 
John  in  her  stead.  Brother  Jamie,  whose  rustic  equipoise, 
fidelity  and  sharp  vernacular  sense,  she  specially  loved, 
was  not  to  behold  her  at  this  time  or  evermore.  She  was 
waiting  for  me  the  night  I  returned  hither  ;  she  had  hur- 
ried back  from  her  little  visit  to  Miss  Bromley  (after  the 
"  room"  operation)  ;  must  and  would  be  here  to  receive 
me.  She  stood  there,  bright  of  face  and  of  soul,  her 
drawing-room  all  bright,  and  everything  to  the  last  fibre 
of  it  in  order ;  had  arrived  only  two  or  three  hours  before  ; 
and  here  again  we  were.  Such  welcome,  after  my  vile 
day  of  railwaying,  like  Jonah  in  the  whale's  belly  !  That 
was  always  her  way  ;  bright  home,  with  its  bright  face, 
full  of  love  and  victorious  over  all  disorder,  always  shone 
on  me  like  a  star  as  I  journeyed  and  tumbled  along  amid 
the  shriekeries  and  miseries.  Such  welcomes  could  not 
await  me  for  ever  ;  I  little  knew  this  was  the  last  of  them 
on  earth.  My  next,  for  a  thousand  years  I  should  never 
32 


498  JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE. 

forget  the  next  (of  April  23,  1866)  which  now  was  lying 
only  some  six  months  away.  I  might  have  seen  she  was 
very  feeble  ;  but  I  noticed  only  how  refinedly  beautiful 
she  was,  and  thought  of  no  sorrow  ahead,— did  not  even 
think,  as  I  now  do,  how  it  was  that  she  was  beautifuller 
than  ever  ;  as  if  years  and  sorrows  had  only  "  worn"  the 
noble  texture  of  her  being  into  greater  fineness,  the 
colour  and  tissue  still  all  complete  !  That  night  she  said 
nothing  of  the  room  here  (down  below),  but  next  morn- 
ing, after  breakfast,  led  me  down,  with  a  quiet  smile, 
expecting  her  little  triumph, — and  contentedly  had  it; 
though  I  knew  not  at  first  the  tenth  part  of  her  merits  in 
regard  to  that  poor  enterprise,  or  how  consummately  it 
had  been  done  to  the  bottom  in  spite  of  her  weakness 
(the  noble  heart !)  ;  and  I  think  (remorsefully)  I  never 
praised  her  enough  for  her  efforts  and  successes  in  regard 
to  it.     Too  late  now  ! 

My  return  was  about  the  middle  of  September ;  she 
never  travelled  more,  except  among  her  widish  circle  of 
friends,  of  whom  she  seemed  to  grow  fonder  and  fonder, 
though  generally  their  qualities  were  of  the  affectionate 
and  faithfully  honest  kind,  and  not  of  the  distinguished, 
as  a  requisite.  She  was  always  very  cheerful,  and  had 
business  enough  ;  though  I  recollect  some  mornings,  one  in 
particular,  when  the  sight  of  her  dear  face  (haggard  from 
the  miseries  of  the  past  night)  was  a  kind  of  shock  to  me. 
Thoughtless  mortal : — she  rallied  always  so  soon,  and 
veiled  her  miseries  away  : — I  was  myself  the  most  col- 
lapsed of  men,  and  had  no  sunshine  in  my  life  but  what 
came  from  her.     Our  old  laundress,  Mrs.    Cook,  a  very 


JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE.  499 

meritorious  and  very  poor  and  courageous  woman,  age 
eighty  or  more,  had  fairly  fallen  useless  that  autumn,  and 
gone  into  the  workhouse.  I  remember  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  taken  about  her,  and  the  search  for  her,  and  set- 
tlement of  her  ;  such  driving  and  abstruse  enquiry  in  the 
slums  of  Westminster,  and  to  the  workhouses  indicated  ; 
discovery  of  her  at  length,  in  the  chaos  of  some  Kensing- 
ton Union  (a  truly  cosmic  body,  herself,  this  poor  old 
cook) ;  with  instantaneous  stir  in  all  directions  (consulting 
with  Rector  Blunt,  interviews  with  Poor-Lavv  Guardians 
etc.  etc.),  and  no  rest  till  the  poor  old  Mrs.  Cook  was  got 
promoted  into  some  quiet  cosmic  arrangement ;  small  cell 
or  cottage  of  your  own  somewhere,  with  liberty  to  read, 
to  be  clean,  and  to  accept  a  -packet  of  tea,  if  any  friend 
gave  you  one,  etc.,  etc.  A  good  little  triumph  to  my 
darling  ;  I  think  perhaps  the  best  she  had  that  spring  or 
winter,  and  the  last  till  my  business  and  the  final  one. 

"  Frederick  "  ended  in  January  1865,  and  we  went  to 
Devonshire  together,  still  prospering,  she  chiefly,  though 
she  was  so  weak.  And  her  talk  with  me  and  with  others 
there  ;  nobody  had  such  a  charming  tongue  for  truth,  dis- 
cernment, graceful  humour  and  ingenuity  ;  ever  patient 
too  and  smiling,  over  her  many  pains  and  sorrows.  We 
were  peaceable  and  happy  comparatively,  through  autumn 
and  winter  ;  especially  she  was  wonderfully  bearing  her 
sleepless  nights  and  thousandfold  infirmities,  and  gently 
picking  out  of  them  more  bright  fragments  for  herself  and 
me  than  many  a  one  in  perfect  health  and  overflowing 
prosperity  could  have  done.  She  had  one  or  two  select 
quality  friends  among  her  many  others.     Lady  Wihiam 


500  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

Russell  is  the  only  one  I  will  name,  who  loved  her  like  a 
daughter,  and  was  charmed  with  her  talents  and  graces. 
"  Mr.  Carlyle  a  great  man?  Yes!  but  Mrs.  Carlyle,  let 
me  inform  you,  is  no  less  great  as  a  woman  !  "  Lady  Wil- 
liam's pretty  little  dinners  of  three  were  every  week  or  two 
an  agreeable  and  beneficial  event  to  me  also,  who  heard 
the  report  of  them  given  with  such  lucidity  and  charm. 

End  of  October  came  somebody  about  the  Edinburgh 
Rectorship,  to  which  she  gently  advised  me.  Beginning 
of  November  I  was  elected  ;  and  an  inane  though  rather 
amusing  hurlyburly  of  empty  congratulations,  imaginary 
businesses,  etc.  etc.,  began,  the  end  of  which  has  been  so 
fatally  tragical  !  Many  were  our  plans  and  speculations 
about  her  going  with  me  ;  t.o  lodge  at  Newbattle  ;  at  etc. 
etc.  The  heaps  of  frivolous  letters  lying  every  morning 
at  breakfast,  and  which  did  not  entirely  cease  all  winter, 
were  a  kind  of  entertainment  to  her  into  March,  when  the 
address  and  journey  had  to  be  thought  of  as  practical  and 
close  at  hand.  She  decided  unwillingly,  and  with  various 
hesitations,  not  to  go  with  me  to  Edinburgh,  in  the  in- 
clement weather,  not  to  go  even  to  Fryston  (Lord  Hough- 
ton's ;  Richard  Milnes's).  As  to  Edinburgh,  she  said  one 
day,  "  You  are  to  speak  extempore  "  (this  was  more  than 
once  clearly  advised,  and  with  sound  insight)  ;  "  now  if 
anything  should  happen  to  you,  I  find  on  any  sudden 
alarm  there  is  a  sharp  twinge  comes  into  my  back,  which 
is  like  to  cut  my  breath,  and  seems  to  stop  the  heart 
almost.  I  should  take  some  fit  in  the  crowded  house  ;  it 
will  never  do,  really  !  "  Alas,  the  doctors  now  tell  me 
this  meant  an  affection  in  some  ganglion  near  the  spine, 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  $01 

and  was  a  most  serious  thing ;  though  I  did  not  attach 
importance  to  it,  but  only  assented  to  her  practical  con- 
clusion as  perfectly  just.  She  lovingly  bantered  and 
beautifully  encouraged  me  about  my  speech,  and  its  hate- 
ful ceremonials  and  empty  botherations ;  which,  for  a 
couple  of  weeks,  were  giving  me,  and  her  through  me, 
considerable  trouble,  interruption  of  sleep,  etc.  ...  so 
beautifully  borne  by  her  (for  my  sake),  so  much  less  so  by 
me  for  hers.  In  fact  I  was  very  miserable  (angry  with 
myself  for  getting  into  such  a  coil  of  vanity,  sadly  ill  in 
health),  and  her  noble  example  did  not  teach  me  as  it 
should.      Sorrow  to  me  now,  when  too  late  ! 

Thursday,  March  29,  about  nine  A.M.,  all  was  ready 
here  ;  she  softly  regulating  and  forwarding,  as  her  wont 
was.  Professor  Tyndall,  full  of  good  spirits,  appeared 
with  a  cab  for  King's  Cross  Station.  Fryston  Hall  to  be 
our  lodgings  till  Saturday.  I  was  in  the  saddest  sickly 
mood,  full  of  gloom  and  misery,  but  striving  to  hide  it ; 
she  too  looked  very  pale  and  ill,  but  seemed  intent  only 
on  forgetting  nothing  that  could  further  me.  A  little 
flask,  holding  perhaps  two  glasses  of  fine  brandy,  she 
brought  me  as  a  thought  of  her  own  ;  I  did  keep  a  little 
drop  of  that  brandy  (hers,  such  was  a  superstition  I  had), 
and  mixed  it  in  a  tumbler  of  water  in  that  wild  scene  of 
the  address,  and  afterwards  told  her  I  had  done  so  ;  thank 
Heaven  that  I  remembered  that  in  one  of  my  hurried 
notes.  The  last  I  saw  of  her  was  as  she  stood  with  her 
back  to  the  parlour  door  to  bid  me  her  good-bye.  She 
kissed  me  twice  (she  me  once,  1  her  a  second  time) ;  and — 
oh  blind  mortals  !  my  one  wish  and  hope  was  to  get  back 


502  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

to  her  again,  and  be  in  peace  under  her  bright  welcome, 
for  the  rest  of  my  days,  as  it  were  ! 

Tyndall  was  kind,  cheery,  inventive,  helpful  ;  the  loy- 
alest  son  could  not  have  more  faithfully  striven  to  sup- 
port his  father  under  every  difficulty  that  rose  ;  and  they 
were  many.  At  Fryston  no  sleep  was  to  be  had  for  rail- 
ways etc.,  and  the  terror  lay  in  those  nights  that  speaking 
would  be  impossible,  that  I  should  utterly  break  down  ; 
to  which,  indeed,  I  had  in  my  mind  said,  "  Well  then," 
and  was  preparing  to  treat  it  with  the  best  contempt  I 
could.  Tyndall  wrote  daily  to  her,  and  kept  up  better 
hopes  ;  by  a  long  gallop  with  me  the  second  day  he  did 
get  me  one  good  six  hours  of  sleep  ;  and  to  her,  made 
doubtless  the  most  of  it :  I  knew  dismally  what  her  anxie- 
ties would  be,  but  trust  well  he  reduced  them  to  their 
minimum.  Lord  Houghton's,  and  Lady's,  kindness  to 
me  was  unbounded  ;  she  also  was  to  have  been  there,  but 
I  was  thankful  not.  Saturday  (to  York  etc.  with  Hough- 
ton, thence  after  long  evil  loiterings  to  Edinburgh  with 
Tyndall  and  Huxley)  was  the  acme  of  the  three  road 
days  ;  my  own  comfort  was  that  there  could  be  no  post  to 
her ;  and  I  arrived  in  Edinburgh  the  forlornest  of  all 
physical  wretches  ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  kindness 
of  the  good  Erskines,  and  of  their  people  too,  I  should 
have  had  no  sleep  there  either,  and  have  gone  probably 
from  bad  to  worse.  But  Tyndall's  letter  of  Sunday  would 
be  comforting  ;  and  my  poor  little  darling  would  still  be 
in  hope  that  Monday  morning,  though  of  course  in  the 
painfullest  anxiety,  and  I  know  she  had  quite  "  gone  off 
her  sleep  "  in  those  five  days  since  I  had  left. 


JANE   WELSH  CARLYLE.  503 

Monday,  at  Edinburgh,  was  to  me  the  gloomiest 
chaotic  day,  nearly  intolerable  for  confusion,  crowding, 
noisy  inanity  and  misery,  till  once  I  got  done.  My 
speech  was  delivered  as  in  a  mood  of  defiant  despair,  and 
under  the  pressure  of  nightmares.  Some  feeling  that  I 
was  not  speaking  lies  alone  sustained  me.  The  applause 
etc.  I  took  for  empty  noise,  which  it  really  was  not  alto- 
gether. The  instant  I  found  myself  loose,  I  hurried  joy- 
fully out  of  it  over  to  my  brother's  lodging  {"JT)  George 
Street,  near  by)  ;  to  the  students  all  crowding  and  shout- 
ing round  me,  I  waved  my  hand  prohibitively  at  the  door, 
perhaps  lifted  my  hat :  and  they  gave  but  one  cheer 
more ;  something  in  the  tone  of  it  which  did  for  the  first 
time  go  into  my  heart.  "  Poor  young  men  !  so  well 
affected  to  the  poor  old  brother  or  grandfather ;  and  in 
such  a  black  whirlpool  of  a  world  here  all  of  us  !  "  Brother 
Jamie,  and  son,  etc.,  were  sitting  within.  Erskine  and  I 
went  silently  walking  through  the  streets  ;  and  at  night 
was  a  kind,  but  wearing  and  wearying  congratulatory  din- 
ner, followed  by  other  such,  unwholesome  to  me,  not  joy- 
ful to  me  ;  and  endured  as  duties,  little  more.  But  that 
same  afternoon,  Tyndall's  telegram,  emphatic  to  the  utter- 
most ("  A  perfect  triumph  "  the  three  words  of  it)  arrived 
here  ;  a  joy  of  joys  to  my  own  little  heroine,  so  beautiful 
her  description  of  it  to  me,  which  was  its  one  value  to 
me  ;  nearly  naught  otherwise  (in  very  truth)  and  the  last 
of  such  that  could  henceforth  have  any  such  addition 
made  to  it.  Alas,  all  "additions"  are  now  ended,  and 
the  thing  added  to  has  become  only  a  pain.  But  I  do 
thank  heaven  for  this  last  favour  to  her  that  so  loved  me  ; 


504  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

and  it  will  remain  a  joy  to  me,  if  my  last  in  this  world. 
She  had  to  dine  with  Forster  and  Dickens  that  evening, 
and  their  way  of  receiving  her  good  news  charmed  her  as 
much  almost  as  the  news  itself. 

From  that  day  forward  her  little  heart  appears  to  have 
been  fuller  and  fuller  of  joy  ;  newspapers,  etc.  etc.  making 
such  a  jubilation  (foolish  people,  as  if  the  address  were 
anything,  or  had  contained  the  least  thing  in  it  which  had 
not  been  told  you  already  !)  She  went  out  for  two  days 
to  Mrs.  Oliphant  at  Windsor  ;  recovered  her  sleep  to  the 
old  poor  average,  or  nearly  so  ;  and  by  every  testimony 
and  all  the  evidence  I  myself  have,  was  not  for  many 
years,  if  ever,  seen  in  such  fine  spirits  and  so  hopeful  and 
joyfully  serene  and  victorious  frame  of  mind,  till  the  last 
moment.  Noble  little  heart  !  her  painful,  much  enduring, 
much  endeavouring  little  history,  now  at  last  crowned  with 
plain  victory,  in  sight  of  her  own  people,  and  of  all  the 
world  ;  everybody  now  obliged  to  say  my  Jeannie  was 
not  wrong ;  she  was  right  and  has  made  it  good  !  Surely 
for  this  I  should  be  grateful  to  heaven,  for  this  amidst  the 
immeasurable  wreck  that  was  preparing  for  us.  She  had 
from  an  early  period  formed  her  own  little  opinion  about 
me  (what  an  Eldorado  to  me,  ungrateful  being,  blind,  un- 
grateful, condemnable,  and  heavy  laden,  and  crushed  down 
into  blindness  by  great  misery  as  I  oftenest  was  !),  and  she 
never  flinched  from  it  an  instant,  I  think,  or  cared,  or 
counted,  what  the  world  said  to  the  contrary  (very  brave, 
magnanipious,  and  noble,  truly  she  was  in  all  this) ;  but  to 
have  the  world  confirm  her  in  it  was  always  a  sensible  plea- 
sure, which  she  took  no  pains  to  hide,  especially  from  me. 


'^ 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  50S 

She  lived  nineteen  days  after  that  Edinburgh  Mon- 
day;  on  the  nineteenth  (April  21,  1866,  between  three 
and  four  P.M.,  as  near  as  I  can  gather  and  sift),  suddenly, 
as  by  a  thunderbolt  from  skies  all  blue  she  was  snatched 
from  me  ;  a  "  death  from  the  gods,"  the  old  Romans 
would  have  called  it  ;  the  kind  of  death  she  many  a  time 
expressed  her  wish  for ;  and  in  all  my  life  (and  as  I  feel 
ever  since)  there  fell  on  me  no  misfortune  like  it ;  which 
has  smitten  my  whole  world  into  universal  wreck  (unless 
I  can  repair  it  in  some  small  measure),  and  extinguish 
whatever  light  of  cheerfulness  and  loving  hopefulness  life 
still  had  in  it  to  me. 

[Here  follows  a  letter  from  Miss  Jewsbury,  with  part 
of  a  second,  which  tell  their  own  tale,  and  after  them  Mr. 
Carlyle's  closing  words.] 

43  Markham  Square,  Chelsea. 
May  26,  1866. 

Dear  Mr.  Carlyle,— I  think  it  better  to  write  than 
to  speak  on  the  miserable  subject  about  which  you  told  me 
to  enquire  of  Mr.  Sylvester.'  I  saw  him  to-day.  He  said 
that  it  would  be  about  twenty  minutes  after  three  o'clock 
or  thereabouts  when  they  left  Mr.  Forster's  house  ;  that  he 
then  drove  through  the  Queen's  gate,  close  by  the  Ken- 
sington Gardens,  that  there,  at  the  uppermost  gate,  she 
got  out,  and  walked  along  the  side  of  the  Gardens  very 
slowly,  about  two  hundred  paces,  with  the  little  dog  run- 
ning, until  she  came   to    the  Serpentine  Bridge,  at   the 

'  Mrs.  Carlyle's  coachman. 


506  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

southern  end  of  which  she  got  into  the  carriage  again,  and 
he  drove  on  until  they  came  to  a  quiet  place  on  the  Ty- 
burnia  side,  near  Victoria  Gate,  and  then  she  put  out  the 
dog  to  run  along.     When  they  came  opposite  to  Albion 
Street,  Stanhope  Place  (lowest   thoroughfare  of  Park  to- 
wards Marble  Arch),  a  brougham  coming  along  upset  the 
dog,  which  lay  on  its  back  screaming  for  a  while,  and  then 
she  pulled  the   check-string  ;  and  he  turned  round  and 
pulled  up  at  the  side  of  the  footpath,  and  there  the   dog 
was  (he  had  got  up  out  of  the  road  and  gone   there) : 
almost  before  the  carriage  stopped  she   was  out  of   it. 
The  lady  whose  brougham  had  caused  the  accident  got 
out  also,  and  several  other  ladies  who  were  walking  had 
stopped  round  the  dog.     The  lady  spoke  to  her  ;  but  he 
could  not  hear  what  she  said,  and  the  other  ladies  spoke. 
She  then  lifted  the  dog  into  the  carriage,  and  got  in  her- 
self.    He  asked  if  the  little  dog  were  hurt ;  but,  he  thinks, 
she  did  not   hear  him,  as   carriages   were   passing.     He 
heard  the  wretched  vermin  of  a  dog  squeak  as  if  she  had 
been  feeling  it  (nothing  but  a  toe  was  hurt)  ;  this  was  the 
last  sound  or  sigh  he  ever  heard  from  her  place  of  fate. 
He  went  on  towards  Hyde  Park  Corner,  turned  there  and 
drove  past  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  Achilles  figure,  up 
the  drive  to  the  Serpentine  and  past  it,  and  came  round 
by   the  road    where   the    dog  was   hurt,  past  the    Duke 
of  Wellington's  [house]  and  past  the  gate  opposite   St. 
George's  ;  getting  no  sign  (noticing  only  the  two  hands 
laid  on  the  lap,  palm  uppermost  the  right  hand,  reverse 
way  the  left,  and  all  motionless),  he  turned  into  the  Ser- 
pentine drive  again  ;  but  after  a  few  yards,  feehng  a  little 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  5©/ 

surprised,  he  looked  back,  and  seeing  her  in  the  same 
posture,  became  alarmed,  made  for  the  streetward  en- 
trance into  the  Park  (few  yards  westward  of  gatekeeper's 
lodge),  and  asked  a  lady  to  look  in  ;  and  she  said  what 
we  know,  and  she  addressed  a  gentleman  who  confirmed 
her  fears.  It  was  then  fully  a  quarter  past  four  ;  going 
on  to  twenty  minutes  (but  nearer  the  quarter),  of  this  he 
is  quite  certain.  She  was  leaning  back  in  one  corner  of 
the  carriage,  rugs  spread  over  her  knees  ;  her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  her  upper  lip  slightly,  slightly  opened. 
Those  who  saw  her  at  the  hospital,  and  when  in  the  car- 
riage, speak  of  the  beautiful  expression  upon  her  face. 

I  asked  him  how  it  was  that  so  long  a  time  was  put 
over  in  so  short  a  drive  ?  He  said  he  went  very  slowly 
on  account  of  the  distractions,  etc.,  and  he  did  not  seem 
to  think  the  time  taken  up  at  all  remarkable  (fifty-five 
minutes)  :  n(5r  did  he  tell  me  if  he  noticed  the  time  as  he 
passed  the  Marble  Arch  clock  either  of  the  two  times. 

If  there  be  any  other  question  you  wish  asked  of  him, 
if  you  will  tell  me,  I  will  ask  him.  He  said  he  heard  the 
little  dog  cry  out  as  though  she  were  feeling  to  find  if  it 
were  hurt. 

Very  respectfully  and  affectionately, 

Geraldine  E.  Jewsbury. 


On  that  miserable  night,  when  we  were  preparing  to 
receive  her,  Mrs,  Warren '  came  to  me  and  said,  that  one 
time  when  she  was  very  ill,  she  said  to  her,  that  when  the 
last  had  come,  she  was  to  go  upstairs  into  the  closet  of 

^  The  housekeeper  in  Cheyne  Row, 


5C8  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE. 

the  spare  room  and  there  she  would  find  two  wax  can- 
dles wrapt  in  paper,  and  that  those  were  to  be  lio-hted, 
and  burned.  She  said  that  after  she  came  to  Hve  in  Lon- 
don, she  wanted  to  give  a  party.  Her  mother  wished 
everything  to  be  very  nice,  and  went  out  and  bought 
candles  and  confectionary :  and  set  out  a  table,  and 
lighted  up  the  room  quite  splendidly,  and  called  her  to 
come  and  see  it,  when  all  was  prepared.  She  was  angry ; 
she  said  people  would  say  she  was  extravagant,  and  would 
ruin  her  husband.  She  took  away  two  of  the  candles 
and  some  of  the  cakes.  Her  mother  was  hurt  and  began 
to  weep  [I  remember  the  "soiree"  well;  heard  nothing 
of  this! — T.  C.].  She  was  pained  at  once  at  what  she 
had  done  ;  she  tried  to  comfort  her,  and  was  dreadfully 
sorry.  She  took  the  candles  and  wrapped  them  up,  and 
put  them  where  they  could  be  easily  found.  We  found 
them  and  lighted  them,  and  did  as  she  had  desired. 

G.  E.  J. 

What  a  strange,  beautiful  sublime  and  almost  ter- 
rible little  action  ;  silently  resolved  on,  and  kept  silent 
from  all  the  earth,  for  perhaps  twenty-four  years !  I 
never  heard  a  whisper  of  it,  and  yet  see  it  to  be  true. 
The  visit  must  have  been  about  1837;  I  remember  the 
"  soiree  "  right  well  ;  the  resolution,  bright  as  with  heav- 
enly tears  and  lightning,  was  probably  formed  on  her 
mother's  death,  February  1842.  My  radiant  one  !  Must 
question  Warren  the  first  time  I  have  heart  (May  29, 
1866). 

I  have  had  from  Mrs.  Warren  a  clear  narrative  (short- 


JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE.  509 

\y  after  the  above  date),  Geraldinc's  report  is  perfectly 
true ;  fact  with  Mrs.  Warren  occurred  in  February  or 
March  1866,  "  perhaps  a  month  before  you  went  to 
Edinburgh,  sir."  I  was  in  the  house,  it  seems,  probably 
asleep  upstairs,  or  gone  out  for  my  walk,  evening  about 
eight  o'clock.  My  poor  darling  was  taken  with  some  bad 
fit  ("  nausea,"  and  stomach  misery  perhaps),  and  had 
rung  for  Mrs.  Warren,  by  whom,  with  some  sip  of  warm 
liquid,  and  gentle  words,  she  was  soon  gradually  relieved. 
Being  very  grateful  and  still  very  miserable  and  low,  she 
addressed  Mrs.  Warren  as  above,  "When  the  last  has 
come,  Mrs.  Warren  ; "  and  gave  her,  with  brevity,  a 
statement  of  the  case,  and  exacted  her  promise  ;  which 
the  other,  with  cheering  counter-words  ("  Oh,  madam, 
what  is  all  this  !  you  Avill  see  me  die  first !  ")  hypothet- 
ically  gave.  All  this  was  wiped  clean  away  before  I  got 
in  ;  I  seem  to  myself  to  half  recollect  one  evening,  when 
she  did  complain  of  "nausea  so  habitual  now,"  and 
looked  extremely  miserable,  while  I  sat  at  tea  (pour  it 
out  she  always  would  herself  drinking  only  hot  water,  oh 
heavens  !)  The  candles  burnt  for  two  whole  nights,  says 
Mrs.  W.  (July  24,  1866). 

The  paper  of  this  poor  notebook  of  hers  is  done  ;  all 
I  have  to  say,  too  (though  there  lie  such  volumes  yet  un- 
said), seems  to  be  almost  done,  and  I  must  sorrowfully 
end  it,  and  seek  for  something  else.  Very  sorrowfully 
still,  for  it  has  been  my  sacred  shrine  and  religious  city 
of  refuge  from  the  bitterness  of  these  sorrows  during  all 
the  doleful  weeks  that  are  past  since  I  took  it  up  ;  a  kind 
of  devotional  thing  (as  I  once  already  said),  which  softens 


510  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 

all  grief  into  tenderness  and  infinite  pity  and  repentant 
love,  one's  whole  sad  life  drowned  as  if  in  tears  for  one, 
and  all  the  wrath  and  scorn  and  other  grim  elements  si- 
lently melted  away.  And  now,  am  I  to  leave  it;  to  take 
farewell  of  her  a  second  time  ?  Right  silent  and  serene 
is  she,  my  lost  darling  yonder,  as  I  often  think  in  my 
gloom,  no  sorrow  more  for  her,  nor  will  there  long  be 
for  me. 


APPENDIX. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  SUNDRY. 

[Begun  at  Mentone  (Alpes  Maritimes),  Monday,  January 

28,  1867.] 

Many  literary  and  one  or  two  political  and  otherwise  public  per- 
sons, more  or  less  superior  to  the  common  run  of  men  I  have  met 
with  in  my  life  ;  but  perhaps  none  of  them  really  great  or  worth 
more  than  a  transient  remembrance,  loud  as  the  talk  about  them 
once  may  have  been ;  and  certainly  none  of  them,  what  is  more  to  the 
purpose,  ever  vitally  interesting  or  consummately  admirable  to  my- 
self; so  that  if  I  do,  for  want  of  something  else  to  occupy  me  better, 
mark  down  something  of  what  I  recollect  concerning  some  of  them, 
who  seemed  the  greatest,  or  stood  the  nearest  to  me,  it  surely  ought 
to  be  with  extreme  brevity,  with  rapid  succinctness  (if  I  can) :  at  all 
events  with  austere  candour,  and  avoidance  of  anything  which  I  can 
suspect  to  be  untrue.  Perhaps  nobody  but  myself  will  ever  read 
this, — but. that  is  not  infallibly  certain— and  even  in  regard  to  my- 
self, the  one  possible  profit  of  such  a  thing  is,  that  it  be  not  false  or 
incorrect  in  any  point,  but  correspond  to  the  fact  in  all. 

When  it  was  that  I  first  got  acquainted  with  Southey's  books,  I 
do  not  now  recollect,  except  that  it  must  have  been  several  years 
after  he  had  been  familiar  to  me  as  a  name,  and  many  years  after 
the  public  had  been  familiar  with  him  as  a  poet,  and  poetically  and 
otherwise  didactic  writer.  His  laureateship  provoked  a  great  deal  of 
vulgar  jesting;  about  the  ''butt  of  sack,"  etc.  ;  for  the  newspaper 
public,  by  far  the  greater  number  of  them  radically  given  had  him 
considerably  in  abhorrence,  and  called  him  not  only  Tory,  but  "re- 
negade," who  had  traitorously  deserted,  and  gone  over  to  the  bad 
cause.  It  was  at  Kirkcaldy  that  we  all  read  a  "  slashing  article  " 
33 


514  APPENDIX. 

(by  Brougham  I  should  now  guess,  were  it  of  the  least  moment)  on 
Southey's  "  Letters  to  W.  Smith,  M.P."  of  Norwich,  a  Small  Socin- 
ian  personage,  conscious  of  meaning  grandly  and  well,  who  had 
been  denouncing  him  as  "renegade"  (probably  contrasting  the  once 
"  Wat  Tyler"  with  the  now  laureateship)  in  the  House  of  Commons; 
a  second  back  stroke,  which,  in  the  irritating  circumstances  of  the 
"  Wat"  itself  (republished  by  some  sneaking  bookseller;  had  driven 
Southey  to  his  fighting  gear  or  polemical  pen.  The  pamphlet  itself 
we  did  not  see,  except  in  review  quotations,  which  were  naturally 
the  shrillest  and  weakest  discoverable,  with  citations  from  "Wat 
Tyler  "  to  accompany ;  but  the  flash  reviewer  understood  his  trade  ; 
and  I  can  remember  how  we  all  cackled  and  triumphed  over  Southey 
along  with  him,  as  over  a  slashed  and  well  slain  foe  to  us  and  man- 
kind ;  for  we  were  all  Radicals  in  heart,  Irving  and  I  as  much  as 
any  of  the  others,  and  were  not  very  wise,  nor  had  looked  into  the 
prr  contra  side.  I  retract  now  on  many  points,  on  that  of  "Barab- 
bas"  in  particular,  which  example  Southey  cited  as  characteristic  of 
democracy,  greatly  to  my  dissent,  till  I  had  much  better,  and  for 
many  years,  considered  the  subject. 

That  bout  of  pamphleteering  had  brought  Southey  much  nearer 
me,  but  had  sensibly  diminished  my  esteem  of  him,  and  would  nat- 
urally slacken  my  desire  for  farther  acquaintance.  It  must  have 
been  a  year  or  two  later  when  his  "  Thalaba,"  "  Curse  of  Kehama/' 
"  Joan  of  Arc,"  etc.  came  into  my  hands,  or  some  one  of  them  came, 
which  awakened  new  effort  for  the  others.  I  recollect  the  much 
kindlier  and  more  respectful  feeling  these  awoke  in  me,  which  has 
continued  ever  since.  I  much  recognise  the  piety,  the  gentle  deep 
affection,  the  reverence  for  God  and  man,  which  reigned  in  these 
pieces:  full  of  soft  pity,  like  the  wailings  of  a  mother,  and  yet  with 
a  clang  of  chivalrous  valour  finely  audible  too.  One  could  not  help 
loving  such  a  man ;  and  yet  I  rather  felt  too  as  if  he  were  a  shrillish 
thin  kind  of  man,  the  feminine  element  perhaps  considerably  pre- 
dominating and  limiting.  However,  I  always  afterwards  looked  out 
for  his  books,  new  or  old,  as  for  a  thing  of  valut,  and  in  particular 


APPINDIX.  515 

read  his  articles  in  the  "  Quarterly,"  which  were  the  most  accessible 
productions.  In  spite  of  my  Radicalism,  I  found  very  much  in  these 
Toryisms  which  was  greatly  according  to  my  heart ;  things  rare  and 
worthy,  at  once  pious  and  true,  which  were  always  welcome  to  me, 
though  I  strove  to  base  them  on  a  better  ground  than  his, — his  being 
no  eternal  or  time-defying  one,  as  I  could  see  ;  and  time  in  fact,  m 
my  own  case,  having  already  done  its  work  then.  In  this  manner 
our  innocently  pleasant  relation,  as  writer  and  written  for,  had  gone 
on,  without  serious  shock,  though,  after  "  Kehama,"  not  with  much 
growth  in  quality  or  quantity,  for  perhaps  ten  years. 

It  was  probably  in  1836  or  7,  the  second  or  third  year  after  our 
removal  to  London,  that  Henry  Taylor,  author  of  "  Artevelde"  and 
various  similar  things,  with  whom  I  had  made  acquaintance,  and 
whose  early  regard,  constant  esteem,  and  readiness  to  be  helpful 
and  friendly,  should  be  among  my  memorabilia  of  those  years,  in- 
vited me  to  come  to  him  one  evening,  and  have  a  little  speech  with 
Southey,  whom  he  judged  me  to  be  curious  about,  and  to  like, 
perhaps  more  than  I  did.  Taylor  himself,  a  solid,  sound-headed, 
faithful  man,  though  of  morbid  vivacity  in  all  senses  of  that  deep- 
reaching  word,  and  with  a  fine  readiness  to  apprehend  new  truth, 
and  stand  by  it,  was  in  personal  intimacy  with  the  "  Lake"  sages 
and  poets,  especially  with  Southey  ;  he  considered  that  in  Words- 
worth and  the  rest  of  them  was  embodied  all  of  pious  wisdom  that 
our  age  had,  and  could  not  doubt  but  the  sight  of  Southey  would  be 
welcome  to  me.  I  readily  consented  to  come,  none  but  we  three 
present,  Southey  to  be  Taylor's  guest  at  dinner,  I  to  join  them  after 
— which  was  done.  Taylor,  still  little  turned  of  thirty,  lived  miscel- 
laneously about,  in  bachelor's  lodgings,  or  sometimes  for  a  month 
or  two  during  "the  season"  in  furnished  houses,  where  he  could 
receive  guests.  In  the  former  I  never  saw  him,  nor  to  the  latter  did 
I  go  but  when  invited.  It  was  in  a  quiet  ground-floor,  of  the  latter 
character  as  I  conjectured,  somewhere  near  Downing  Street,  and 
looking  into  St.  James's  Park,  that  I  found  Taylor  and  Southey,  with 
their  wine  before  them,  which  they  hardly  seemed  to  be  minding  ; 


5l6  APPENDIX. 

very  quiet  this  seemed  to  be,  quiet  their  discourse  too  ;  to  all  which, 
not  sorry  at  the  omen,  I  quietly  joined  myself.  Southey  was  a  man 
towards  well  up  in  the  fifties  ;  hair  grey,  not  yet  hoary,  well  setting , 
off  his  fine  clear  brown  complexion  ;  head  and  face  both  smallish, 
as  indeed  the  figure  was  while  seated  ;  features  finely  cut ;  eyes, 
brow,  mouth,  good  in  their  kind — expressive  all,  and  even  vehemently 
so,  but  betokening  rather  keenness  than  depth  either  of  intellect  or 
character  ;  a  serious,  human,  honest,  but  sharp  almost  fierce-looking 
thin  man,  with  very  much  of  the  militant  in  his  aspect, — in  the  eyes 
especially  was  visible  a  mixture  of  sorrow  and  of  anger,  or  of  angry 
contempt,  as  if  his  indignant  fight  with  the  world  had  not  yet  ended 
in  victory,  but  also  never  should  in  defeat.  A  man  you  were  willing 
to  hear  speak.  We  got  to  talk  of  Parliament,  public  speaking  and 
the  like  (perhaps  some  electioneering  then  afoot  ?)  On  my  men- 
tioning the  candidate  at  Bristol,  with  his  "  I  say  ditto  to  Mr.  Burke" 
— "Hah,  I  myself  heard  that"  (had  been  a  boy  listening  when  that 
was  said !)  His  contempt  for  the  existing  set  of  parties  was  great 
and  fixed,  especially  for  what  produced  the  present  electoral  temper  ; 
though  in  the  future  too,  except  through  Parliaments  and  elections, 
he  seemed  to  see  no  hope.  He  took  to  repeating  in  a  low,  sorrow- 
fully mocking  tone,  certain  verses  (I  supposed  of  his  own),  emphati- 
cally in  that  vein  which  seemed  to  me  bitter  and  exaggerative,  not 
without  ingenuity,  but  exhibiting  no  trace  of  genius.  Partly  in 
response,  or  rather  as  sole  articulate  response,  I  asked  who  had 
made  those  verses?  Southey  answered  carelessly,  "  Praed,  they 
say  ;  Praed,  I  suppose."  My  notion  was,  he  was  merely  putting  me 
off,  and  the  verses  were  his  own,  though  he  disliked  confessing  to 
them.  A  year  or  two  ago,  looking  into  some  review  of  a  reprint  of 
Praed's  works,  I  ^ame  upon  the  verses  again,  among  other  excerpts 
of  a  similar  genus,  and  found  that  they  verily  were  Praed's  ;  my 
wonder  now  was  that  Southey  had  charged  his  memory  with  the  like 
of  them.  This  Praed  was  a  young  M.P.  who  had  gained  distinction 
at  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  As  he  spoke  and  wrote  without  scruple 
against  the  late  illustrious  Reform  Bill  and  sovereign  Reform  doc- 


i 


APPENDIX.  517 

trine  in  general,  great  things  were  expected  of  him  by  his  party, 
uow  sitting  cowed  into  silence,  and  his  name  was  very  current  in 
the  newspapers  for  a  few  months  ;  till  suddenly  (soon  after  this  of 
Southey),  the  poor  young  man  died,  and  sank  at  once  into  oblivion, 
tragical  though  not  unmerited,  nor  extraordinary,  as  I  judged  from 
the  contents  of  that  late  reprint  and  Biographical  Sketch,  by  some 
pious  and  regretful  old  friend  of  his.  That  Southey  had  some  of 
Praed's  verses  by  heart  (verses  about  Hon.  Mr.  this  moving,  say,  to 
abolish  death  and  the  devil;  Hon.  Mr.  B.,  to  change,  for  improve- 
ment's sake,  the  obliquity  of  the  Ecliptic,  etc.  etc.)  is  perhaps  a  kind 
of  honour  to  poor  Praed,  who,  (inexorable  fate  cutting  short  his 
"  career  of  ambition  "  in  that  manner,)  is  perhaps  as  sad  and  tragi- 
cal to  me  as  to  another.  After  Southey's  bit  of  recitation  I  think 
the  party  must  have  soon  broken  up.  I  recollect  nothing  more  of 
it,  except  my  astonishment  when  Southey  at  last  completely  rose 
from  his  chair  to  shake  hands  ;  he  had  only  half  risen  and  nodded 
on  my  coming  in;  and  all  along  I  had  counted  him  a  lean  little  man; 
but  now  he  shot  suddenly  aloft  into  a  lean  tall  one,  all  legs,  in  shape 
and  stature  like  a  pair  of  tongs,  which  peculiarity  my  surprise  doubt- 
less exaggerated  to  me,  but  only  made  it  the  more  notable  and  en- 
tertaining. Nothing  had  happened  throughout  that  was  other  than 
moderately  pleasant ;  and  I  returned  home  (I  conclude)  well  enough 
satisfied  with  my  evening.  Southey's  sensitiveness  I  had  noticed  on 
the  first  occasion  as  one  of  his  characteristic  qualities  ;  but  was 
nothing  like  aware  of  the  extent  of  it  till  our  next  meeting. 

This  was  a  few  evenings  afterwards,  Taylor  giving  some  dinner, 
or  party,  party  in  honour  of  his  guest ;  if  dinner  I  was  not  at  that, 
but  must  have  undertaken  for  the  evening  sequel,  as  less  incommo- 
dious to  me,  less  unwholesome  more  especially.  I  remember  enter- 
ing, in  the  same  house,  but  upstairs  this  time,  a  pleasant  little 
drawing-room,  in  which,  in  well-lighted,  secure  enough  condition, 
sat  Southey  in  full  dress,  silently  roclining,  and  as  yet  no  other  com- 
pany. We  saluted  suitably  ;  touched  ditto  on  the  vague  initiatory 
points  ;  and  were  still  there,  when  by  way  of  coming  closer,  I  asked 


5l8  APPENDIX. 

mildly,  with  no  appearance  of  special  interest,  but  with  more  than 
I  really  felt,  "  Do  you  know  De  Quincy  ?  "  (the  opium-eater,  whom 
I  knew  to  have  lived  in  Cumberland  as  his  neighbour).  "Yes, 
sir,"  said  Southey,  with  extraordinary  animosity,  "and  if  you  have 
opportunity,  I'll  thank  you  to  tell  him  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  scoun- 
drel's living  ! "  I  laughed  lightly,  said  I  had  myself  little  acquaint- 
ance with  the  man,  and  could  not  wish  to  recommend  myself  by 
that  message.  Southey's  face,  as  I  looked  at  it,  was  become  of 
slate  colour,  the  eyes  glancing,  the  attitude  rigid,  the  figure  alto- 
gether a  picture  of  Rhadamanthine  rage, — that  is,  rage  conscious  to 
itself  of  being  just.  He  doubtless  felt  I  would  expect  some  explan- 
ation from  him.  "  I  have  told  Hartley  Coleridge,"  said  he,  "  that 
he  ought  to  take  a  strong  cudgel,  proceed  straight  to  Edinburgh, 
and  give  De  Ouincy,  publicly  in  the  streets  there,  a  sound  beating — 
as  a  calumniator,  cowardly  spy,  traitor,  base  betrayer  of  the  hos- 
pitable social  hearth,  for  one  thing ! "  It  appeared  De  Quincy 
was  then,  and  for  some  time  past,  writing  in  "  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine" something  of  autobiographic  nature,  a  series  of  papers  on  the 
"  Lake"  period  of  his  life,  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  highly  needful 
trifle  of  money,  poor  soul,  and  with  no  wish  to  be  untrue  (I  could 
believe)  or  hurt  anybody,  though  not  without  his  own  bits  of  splen- 
etic conviction,  and  to  which  latter,  in  regard  of  Coleridge  in 
particular,  he  had  given  more  rein  than  was  agreeable  to  parties 
concerned.  I  believe  I  had  myself  read  the  paper  on  Coleridge, 
one  paper  on  him  I  certainly  read,  and  had  been  the  reverse  of 
tempted  by  it  to  look  after  the  others  ;  finding  in  this,  e.g.,  that 
Coleridge  had  the  greatest  intellect  perhaps  ever  given  to  man,  "  but 
that  he  wanted,  or  as  good  as  wanted,  common  honesty  in  applying 
it ; "  which  seemed  to  me  a  miserable  contradiction  in  terms,  and 
threw  light,  if  not  on  Coleridge,  yet  on  De  Quincy's  faculty  of  judg- 
ing him  or  others.  In  this  paper  there  were  probably  withal  some 
domestic  details  or  allusions,  to  which,  as  familiar  to  rumour,  I  had 
paid  but  little  heed  ;  but  certainly,  of  general  reverence  for  Cole- 
ridge and  his  gifts  and  deeds,  I  had  traced,  not  deficiency  in  this 


APPENDIX.  519 

paper,  but  glaring  exaggeration,  coupled  with  De  Quincean  draw- 
backs, which  latter  had  alone  struck  Southey  with  such  poignancy  ; 
or  perhaps  there  had  been  other  more  criminal  papers,  which  Southey 
knew  of,  and  not  I  ?     In  few  minutes  we  let  the  topic  drop,  1  help- 
ing what  I  could,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  as  if  he  had  done  a  little 
wrong ;  and  was  bound  to  show  himself  more  than  usually  amicable 
and  social,  especially  with  me,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  which  he 
did  in  effect  ;   though  I  quite  forget  the  details,  only  that  I  had  a 
good  deal  of  talk  with  him,  in  the  circle  of  the  others  ;  and  had  again 
more  than  once  to  notice  the   singular  readiness  of  the  blushes  ; 
amiable  red  blush,  beautiful  like  a  young  girl's,  when  you  touched 
genially  the  pleasant  theme  ;  and  serpent-like  flash  of  blue  or  black 
blush  (this  far,  very  far  the  rarer  kind,  though  it  did  recur  too)  when 
you  struck  upon  the  opposite.     All  details  of  the  evening,  except 
that  primary  one,  are  clean  gone  ;  but  the  effect  was  interesting, 
pleasantly  stimulating  and  surprising.     I  said  to  myself,  "  How  has 
this  man  contrived,  with  such  a  nervous  system,  to  keep  alive  for  near 
sixty  years  ?    Now  blushing  under  his  grey  hairs,  rosy  like  a  maiden 
of  fifteen  ;    now  slaty  almost,  like  a  rattle-snake  or  fiery  serpent? 
How  has  he  not  been  torn  to  pieces  long  since,  under  such  furious 
pulling  this  way  and  that  ?     He  must  have  somewhere  a  great  deal 
of  methodic  virtue  in  him  ;   I  suppose,  too,  his  heart  is  thoroughly 
honest,  which  helps  considerably  !  "     I  did  not  fancy  myself  to  have 
made  personally  much  impression  on  Southey  ;    but  on  those  terms 
I  accepted  him  for  a  loyal  kind  of  man  ;  and  was  content  and  thank- 
ful to  know  of  his  existing  in  the  world,  near  me,  or  still  far  from 
me,  as  the  fates  should  have  determined.     For  perhaps  two  years  I 
saw  no  more  of  him  ;  heard  only  from  Taylor  in  particular,  that  he 
was  overwhelmed  in  misery,  and  imprudently  refusing  to  yield,  or 
screen  himself  in  any  particular.     Imprudently,  thought  Taylor  and 
his  other  friends  ;  for  not  only  had  he  been,  for  several  continuous 
years,  toiling  and  fagging  at  a  collective  edition  of  his  works,  which 
cost  him  a  great  deal  of  incessant  labour ;  but  far  worse,  his  poor 
wife  had  sunk  into  insanity,  and  moreover  he  would  not,  such  his 


520  APPENDIX. 

feeling  on  this  tragic  matter,  be  persuaded  to  send  her  to  an  asylum, 
or  trust  her  out  of  his  own  sight  and  keeping!  Figure  such  a  scene  ; 
and  what  the  most  sensitive  of  mankind  must  have  felt  under  it. 
This,  then,  is  the  garland  and  crown  of  "  victory"  provided  for  an 
old  man,  when  he  survives,  spent  with  his  fifty  years  of  climbing 
and  of  running,  and  has  what  you  call  won  the  race  I 

It  was  after  I  had  finished  the  "  French  Revolution,"  and  per- 
haps after  my  Annandale  journey  to  recover  from  this  adventure, 
that  1  heard  of  Southey's  being  in  town  again.  His  collective  edi- 
tion was  complete,  his  poor  wife  was  dead  and  at  rest ;  his  work  was 
done,  in  fact  (had  he  known  it),  all  his  work  in  the  world  was  done  ; 
and  he  had  determined  on  a  few  weeks  of  wandering,  and  trying  to 
repose  and  recreate  himself,  among  old  friends  and  scenes.  I  saw 
him  twice  or  thrice  on  this  occasion  ;  it  was  our  second  and  last 
piece  of  intercourse,  and  much  the  more  interesting,  to  me  at  least, 
and  for  a  reason  that  will  appear.  My  wild  excitation  of  nerves, 
after  finishing  that  grim  book  on  "  French  Revolution,"  was  some- 
thing strange.  The  desperate  nature  of  our  circumstances  and  out- 
looks while  writing  it,  the  thorough  possession  it  had  taken  of  me, 
dwelling  in  me  day  and  night,  keeping  me  in  constant  fellowship 
with  such  a  "  flamy  cut-throat  scene  of  things,"  infernal  and  celes- 
tial both  in  one,  with  no  fixed  prospect  but  that  of  writing  it,  though 
I  should  die,  had  held  me  in  a  fever  blaze  for  three  years  long ;  and 
now  the  blaze  had  ceased,  problem  taliter  qualiter  v^2i^  actually  done, 
and  my  humour  and  way  of  thought  about  all  things  was  of  an  alto- 
gether ghastly,  dim-smouldering,  and  as  if  preternatural  sort.  I 
well  remember  that  ten  minutes'  survey  I  had  of  Annan  and  its  vi- 
cinity, the  forenoon  after  my  landing  there.  Brother  Alick  inust 
Lvive  met  me  at  the  steamboat  harbour,  I  suppose  ;  at  any  rate  we 
were  walking  towards  Scotsbrig  together,  and  at  Mount  Annan  Gate, 
bottom  of  Landhead  hamlet,  he  had  bft  me  for  a  moment  till  he 
called  somewhere.  I  stood  leaning  against  a  stone  or  milestone, 
face  towards  Annan,  of  which  with  the  two  miles  of  variegated  cheer- 
ful green  slope  that  intervened,  and  then  of  the  Solway  Frith,  far 


APPENDIX.  521 

and  wide  from  Gretna,  St.  Bees  Head  and  beyond  it,  of  the  grand 
and  lovely  Cumberland  mountains,  with  Helvellyn  and  even  with 
Ingleborough  in  the  rearward,  there  was  a  magnificent  view  well 
known  to  me.  Stone  itself  was  well  known  to  me  ;  this  had  been 
mv  road  to  Annan  School  from  my  tenth  year  upward  ;  right  sharp 
was  my  knowledge  of  every  item  in  this  scene,  thousandfold  my 
memories  connected  with  it,  and  mournful  and  painful  rather  than 
joyful,  too  many  of  them  !  And  now  here  it  was  again  ;  and  here 
was  I  again.  Words  cannot  utter  the  wild  and  ghastly  expressive- 
ness of  that  scene  to  me  ;  it  seemed  as  if  Hades  itself  and  the  gloomy 
realms  of  death  and  eternity  were  looking  out  on  me  through  those 
poor  old  familiar  objects  ;  as  if  no  miracle  could  be  more  miracu- 
lous than  this  same  bit  of  space  and  bit  of  time  spread  out  before 
me.  1  felt  withal  how  wretchedly  unwell  I  must  be  ;  and  was  glad, 
no  doubt,  when  Alick  returned,  and  we  took  the  road  again.  What 
precedes  and  what  follows  this  clear  bit  of  memory,  are  alike  gone  ; 
but  for  seven  or  more  weeks  after,  I  rode  often  down  and  up  this 
same  road,  silent,  solitary,  weird  of  mood,  to  bathe  in  the  Solway  ; 
and  not  even  my  dear  old  mother's  love  and  cheery  helpfulness  (for 
she  was  then  still  strong  for  her  age)  could  raise  my  spirits  out  of 
utter  grimness  and  fixed  contemptuous  disbelief  in  the  future.  Hope 
of  having  succeeded,  of  ever  succeeding,  I  had  not  the  faintest,  was 
not  even  at  the  pains  to  wish  it ;  said  only  in  a  dim  mute  way, 
"  Very  well,  then  ;  be  it  just  so  then  !  "  A  foolish  young  neighbour, 
not  an  ill-disposed,  sent  me  a  number  of  the  "  Athenaeum"  (literary 
journal  of  the  day)  in  which  I  was  placidly,  with  some  elaboration, 
set  down  as  blockhead  and  strenuous  failure  :  the  last  words  were, 
"  Readers,  have  we  made  out  our  case  ?  "  I  read  it  without  pain, 
or  pain  the  least  to  signify  ;  laid  it  aside  for  a  day  or  two  ;  then  one 
morning,  in  some  strait  about  our  breakfast  tea-kettle,  slipt  the  pec- 
cant number  under  that,  and  had  my  cup  of  excellent  hot  tea  from 
it.  The  foolish  neighbour  who  was  filing  the  "Athenceum"  (more 
power  to  him  !)  found  a  lacuna  in  his  set  at  this  point  ;  might  know 
better,  another  time,  it  was  hoped !     Thackeray's  laudation  in  the 


522  APPENDIX. 

"  Times,"  I  also  recollect  the  arrival  of  (how  pathetic  now  her  mirth 
over  it  to  me  !)  But  neither  did  Thackeray  inspire  me  with  any 
emotion,  still  less  with  any  ray  of  exultation  :  "  One  other  poor 
judge  voting,"  I  said  to  myself;  "but  what  is  he,  or  such  as  he  ? 
The  fate  of  that  thing  is  fixed !  I  have  written  it ;  that  is  all  my  re- 
sult." Nothing  now  strikes  me  as  affecting  in  all  this  but  her  noble 
attempt  to  cheer  me  on  my  return  home  to  her,  still  sick  and  sad  ; 
and  how  she  poured  out  on  me  her  melodious  joy,  and  all  her  bits 
of  confirmatory  anecdotes  and  narratives  ;  "  Oh,  it  has  had  a  great 
success,  dear !  "  and  not  even  she  could  irradiate  my  darkness, 
beautifully  as  she  tried  for  a  long  time,  as  I  sat  at  her  feet  again  by 
our  own  parlour-fire.  "  Oh,  you  are  an  unbelieving  nature  !  "  said 
she  at  last,  starting  up,  probably  to  give  me  some  tea.  There  was, 
and  is,  in  all  this  something  heavenly  ;  the  rest  is  all  of  it  smoke  ; 
and  has  gone  up  the  chimney,  inferior  in  benefit  and  quality  to  what 
my  pipe  yielded  me.  I  was  rich  once,  had  I  known  it,  very  rich  ; 
and  now  I  am  become  poor  to  the  end. 

Such  being  my  posture  and  humour  at  that  time,  fancy  my  sur- 
prise at  finding  Southey  full  of  sympathy,  assent  and  recognition  of 
the  amplest  kind,  for  my  poor  new  book  !  We  talked  largely  on  the 
huge  event  itself,  which  he  had  dwelt  with  openly  or  privately  ever 
since  his  youth,  and  tended  to  interpret,  exactly  as  I,  the  suicidal 
explosion  of  an  old  wicked  world,  too  wicked,  false  and  impious  for 
living  longer ;  and  seemed  satisfied  and  as  if  grateful,  that  a  strong 
voice  had  at  last  expressed  that  meaning.  My  poor  "  French  Revo- 
lution "  evidently  appeared  to  him  a  good  deed,  a  salutary  bit  of 
"  scriptural  "  exposition  for  the  public  and  for  mankind  ;  and  this,  I 
could  perceive,  was  the  soul  of  a  great  many  minor  approbations 
and  admirations  of  detail,  which  he  was  too  polite  to  speak  of.  As 
Southey  was  the  only  man  of  eminence  that  had  ever  taken  such  a 
view  of  me,  and  especially  of  this  my  first  considerable  book,  it 
seems  strange  that  I  should  have  felt  so  little  real  triumph  in  it  as  I 
did.  For  all  other  eminent  men,  in  regard  to  all  my  books  and 
writings  hitherto,  and  most  of  all  in  regard  to  this  latest,  had  stood 


i 


APPENDIX.  523 

pointedly  silent,  dubitative,  disapprobatory,  many  of  them  shaking 
their  heads.  Then, when  poor  "  Sartor"  got  passed  through  "  Era- 
ser,"  and  was  done  up  from  the  Fraser  types  as  a  separate  thing, 
perhaps  about  fifty  copies  being  struck  off,  I  sent  six  copies  to  six 
Edinburgh  literary  friends  ;  from  not  one  of  whom  did  I  get  the 
smallest  whisper  even  of  receipt — a  thing  disappointing  more  or  less 
to  human  nature,  and  which  has  silently  and  insensibly  led  me  never 
since  to  send  any  copy  of  a  book  to  Edinburgh,  or  indeed  to  Scot- 
land at  all,  except  to  my  own  kindred  there,  and  in  one  or  two  spe- 
cific unliterary  cases  more.  The  Plebs  of  literature  might  be  divided 
in  their  verdicts  about  me,  though,  by  count  of  heads,  I  always  sus- 
pect the  "  guilties  "  clean  had  it ;  but  the  conscript  fathers  declined 
to  vote  at  all.  And  yet  here  was  a  conscript  father  voting  in  a  very 
pregnant  manner ;  and  it  seems  I  felt  but  little  joy  even  in  that  ! 
Truly  I  can  say  for  myself,  Southey's  approbation,  though  very  pri- 
vately I  doubtless  had  my  pride  in  it,  did  not  the  least  tend  to  swell 
me  ;  though,  on  the  other  hand,  I  must  own  to  very  great  gloom  of 
mind,  sullen  some  part  of  it,  which  is  possibly  a  worse  fault  than 
what  it  saved  me  from.  I  remember  now  how  polite  and  delicate  his 
praises  of  me  were  ;  never  given  direct  or  in  over  measure,  but  al- 
ways obliquely,  in  the  way  of  hint  or  inference  left  for  me  ;  and  how 
kind,  sincere  and  courteous,  his  manner  throughout  was.  Our  mu- 
tual considerations  about  French  Revolution,  about  its  incidents, 
catastrophes,  or  about  its  characters,  Danton,  Camille,  etc.,  and 
contrasts  and  comparisons  of  them  with  their  (probable)  English 
compeers  of  the  day,  yielded  pleasant  and  copious  material  for  dia- 
logue when  we  met.  Literature  was  hardly  touched  upon  :  our  dis- 
course came  almost  always  upon  moral  and  social  topics.  Southey's 
look,  I  remarked,  was  strangely  careworn,  anxious,  though  he  seemed 
to  like  talking,  and  both  talked  and  listened  well ;  his  eyes  especially 
were  as  if  filled  with  gloomy  bewilderment  and  incurable  sorrows. 
He  had  got  to  be  about  sixty-three,  had  buried  all  his  suffering 
loved  ones,  wound  up  forty  years  of  incessant  vehement  labour, 
much  of  it  more  or  less  ungenial  to  him  ;  and  in  fact,  though  he 


524  APPENDIX. 

knew  it  not,  had  finished  his  work  in  the  world  ;  and  might  well  be 
looking  back  on  it  with  a  kind  of  ghastly  astonishment  rather  than 
with  triumph  or  joy  ! 

I  forget  how  often  we  met ;  it  was  not  very  often  ;  it  was  always 
at  H.  Taylor's,  or  through  Taylor.  One  day,  for  the  first  and  last 
time,  he  made  us  a  visit  at  Chelsea  ;  a  certain  old  lady  cousin  of 
Taylor's,  who  sometimes  presided  in  his  house  for  a  month  or  two  in 
the  town  season, — a  Miss  Fenwick,  of  provincial  accent  and  type, 
but  very  wise,  discreet  and  well-bred, — had  come  driving  down 
with  him.  Their  arrival,  and  loud  thundering  knock  at  the  door,  is 
very  memorable  to  me  ; — the  moment  being  unusually  critical  in 
our  poor  household  !  My  little  Jeannie  was  in  hands  with  the  mar- 
malade that  day  :  none  ever  made  such  marmalade  for  me,  pure  as 
liquid  amber,  in  taste  and  in  look  almost  poetically  delicate,  a.nd  it 
was  the  only  one  of  her  pretty  and  industrious  confitures  that  I  indi- 
vidually cared  for  ;  which  made  her  doubly  diligent  and  punctual 
about  it.  (Ah  me,  ah  me  !)  The  kitchen  fire,  I  suppose,  had  not  been 
brisk  enough,  free  enough,  so  she  had  had  the  large  brass  pan  and 
contents  brought  up  to  the  brisker  parlour  fire  ;  and  was  there  vic- 
toriously boiling  it,  when  it  boiled  over,  in  huge  blaze,  set  the  chimney 
on  fire, — and  I  (from  my  writing  upstairs  I  suppose)  had  been  sud- 
denly summoned  to  the  rescue.  What  a  moment !  what  an  outlook  ! 
The  kindling  of  the  chimney  soot  was  itself  a  grave  matter  ;  involv- 
ing fine  of  ^lo  if  the  fire-engines  had  to  come.  My  first  and  imme- 
diate step  was  to  parry  this  ;  by  at  once  letting  down  the  grate 
valve,  and  cutting  quite  off  the  supply  of  oxygen  or  atmosphere; 
which  of  course  was  effectual,  though  at  the  expense  of  a  little 
smoke  in  the  room  meanwhile.  The  brass  pan,  and  remaining  con- 
tents (not  much  wasted  or  injured)  she  had  herself  snatched  off  and 
set  on  the  hearth  ;  I  was  pulling  down  the  back  windows,  which 
would  have  completed  the  temporary  settlement,  when,  hardly  three 
yards  from  us,  broke  out  the  thundering  door-knocker  ;  and  before 
the  brass  pan  could  be  got  away.  Miss  Fenwick  and  Southey  were 
let  in.    Southey,  I  don't  think  my  darling  had  yet  seen ;  but  her  ov/n 


APPENDIX.  525 

fine  modest  composure,  and  presence  of  mind,  never  in  any  greatest 
other  presence  forsook  her.     I  remember  how  daintily  she  made  the 
salutations,  brief  quizzical    bit  of    explanation,  got   the   wreck   to 
vanish  ;  and  sate  down  as  member   of   our  little  party.      Southcy 
and  I  were  on  the  sofa  together  ;  she  nearer  Miss  Fenwick,  for  a 
little  of  feminine  "  aside  "  now  and  then.     The  colloquy  did  not  last 
long  : — I  recollect  no  point  of  it,  except  that  Southey  and  I  got  to 
speaking  about  Shelley  (whom  perhaps  I  remembered  to  have  lived 
in  the  Lake  country  for  some  time,  and  had  started  on  Shelley  as  a 
practicable  topic).      Southey  did  not  rise  into  admiration  of  Shelley 
either  for  talent  or  conduct  ;  spoke  of  him  and  his  life  without  bit- 
terness, but  with  contemptuous  sorrow,  and  evident  aversion  min- 
gled with  his  pity.     To  me  also  poor  Shelley  always  was,  and  is,  a 
kind  of  ghastly  object,  colourless,  pallid,  without  health  or  warmth 
or  vigour  ;  the  sound  of  him  shrieky,  frosty,  as  if  a  ghost  were  try- 
ing to  "  sing  to  us  ;"  the  temperament  of  him  spasmodic,  hysterical 
instead  of  strong  or  robust ;  with  fine  affections  and  aspirations,  gone 
all  such  a  road  :— a  man  infinitely  too  weak  for  that  solitary  scaling 
of  the  Alps  which  he  undertook  in  spite  of  all  the  world.     At  some 
point  of  the  dialogue  I  said  to  Southey,  "  a  haggard  existence  that 
of  his."     I  remember  Southey's  pause,  and  the  tone  and  air  with 
which  he  answered,  "  It  is  a  haggard  existence  1 "     His  look,  at  this 
moment,  was  unusually  gloomy  and  heavy-laden,  full  of  confused 
distress  ;— as  if  in  retrospect  of  his  own  existence,  and  the  haggard 
battle  it  too  had  been. 

He  was  now  about  sixty-three  ;  his  jvork  all  done,  but  his  heart 
as  if  broken.  A  certain  Miss  Bowles,  given  to  scribbling,  with 
its  affectations,  its  sentimentalities,  and  perhaps  twenty  years 
younger  than  he,  had  (as  I  afterwards  understood)  heroically  volun- 
teered to  marry  him,  "  for  the  purpose  of  consoling,"  etc.,  etc.  ;  to 
which  he  heroically  had  assented  ;  and  was  now  on  the  road  towards 
Bristol,  or  the  western  region  where  Miss  Bowles  lived,  for  com- 
pleting that  poor  hope  of  his  and  hers.  A  second  wedlock  ;  in  what 
contrast  almost  dismal,  almost  horrible,  with  a  former  there  had 


526  APPENDIX. 

been  !  Far  away  that  former  one  ;  but  it  had  been  illuminated  by 
the  hopes  and  radiances  of  very  heaven  ;  this  second  one  was  to  be 
celebrated  under  sepulchral  lamps,  and  as  if  in  the  forecoast  of 
the  charnel-house  !  Southey's  deep  misery  of  aspect  I  should  have 
better  understood  had  this  been  known  to  me  ;  but  it  was  known 
to  Taylor  alone,  who  kept  it  locked  from  everybody. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Southey  was  on  an  evening  at  Taylor's,  no- 
body there  but  myself;  I  think  he  meant  to  leave  town  next  morn- 
ing, and  had  wished  to  say  farewell  to  me  first.  We  sat  on  the  sofa 
together  ;  our  talk  was  long  and  earnest ;  topic  ultimately  the 
usual  one,  steady  approach  of  democracy,  with  revolution  (prob- 
ably explosive)  and  a  finis  incomputable  to  man ;  steady  decay 
of  all  morality,  political,  social,  individual ;  this  once  noble  Eng- 
land getting  more  and  more  ignoble  and  untrue  in  every  fibre  of  it, 
till  the  gold  (Goethe's  composite  king)  would  all  be  eaten  out,  and 
noble  England  would  have  to  collapse  in  shapeless  ruin,  whether  for 
ever  or  not  none  of  us  could  know.  Our  perfect  consent  on  these 
matters  gave  an  animation  to  the  dialogue,  which  I  remember  as 
copious  and  pleasant.  Southey's  last  word  was  in  answer  to  some 
tirade  of  mine  against  universal  mammon-worship,  gradual  acceler- 
ating decay  of  mutual  humanity,  of  piety  and  fidelity  to  God  or 
man,  in  all  our  relations  and  performances,  the  whole  illustrated  by 
examples,  I  suppose  ;  to  which  he  answered,  not  with  levity,  yet 
with  a  cheerful  tone  in  his  seriousness,  "  It  will  not,  and  it  cannot 
come  to  good  !  "  This  he  spoke  standing  ;  I  had  risen,  checking  my 
tirade,  intimating  that,  alas,  1  must  go.  He  invited  me  to  Cumber- 
land, to  "  see  the  lakes  again,"  and  added,  "  Let  us  know  before- 
hand, that  the  rites  of  hospitality — "  I  had  already  shaken  hands, 
and  now  answered  from  beyond  the  door  of  the  apartment,  "Ah, 
yes  ;  thanks,  thanks !  "  little  thinking  that  it  was  my  last  farewell 
of  Southey. 

He  went  to  the  Western  country  ;  got  wedded,  went  back  to 
Keswick  ;  and  I  heard  once  or  so  some  shallow  jest  about  his  prompt- 
itude in  wedding  :  but  before  long,  the  news  came,  first  in  whispers, 


APPENDIX.  527 

then  public  and  undeniable,  that  his  mind  was  going  and  gone, 
memory  quite,  and  the  rest  hopelessly  following  it.  The  new  Mrs. 
Southey  had  not  succeeded  in  "  consoling  and  comforting  "  him  ;  but 
far  the  reverse.  We  understood  afterward  that  the  grown-up  daugh- 
ters and  their  stepmother  had  agreed  ill  ;  that  perhaps  neither  they 
nor  she  were  very  wise,  nor  the  arrangement  itself  very  wise  or  well- 
contrived.  Better  perhaps  that  poor  Southey  was  evicted  from  it ; 
shrouded  away  in  curtains  of  his  own,  and  deaf  to  all  discords  hence- 
forth! We  heard  of  him  from  Miss  Fenwick  now  and  then  (I  think 
for  a  year  or  two  more)  till  the  end  came.  He  was  usually  altogether 
placid  and  quiet,  without  memory,  more  and  more  without  thought. 
One  day  they  had  tried  him  with  some  fine  bit  of  his  own  poetry  ;  he 
woke  into  beautiful  consciousness,  eyes  and  features  shining  with 
their  old  brightness  (and  perhaps  a  few  words  of  rational  speech 
coming);  but  it  lasted  only  some  minutes,  till  all  lapsed  into  the  old 
blank  again.  By  degrees  all  intellect  had  melted  away  from  him, 
and  quietly,  unconsciously,  he  died.  There  was  little  noise  in  the 
public  on  this  occurrence,  nor  could  his  private  friends  do  other  than, 
in  silence,  mournfully  yet  almost  gratefully  acquiesce.  There  came 
out  by  and  by  two  lives  of  him  ;  one  by  his  widow,  one  by  his  son 
(such  the  family  discrepancies,  happily  inaudible  where  they  would 
have  cut  sharpest)  ;  neither  of  these  books  did  I  look  into. 

Southey  I  used  to  construe  to  myself  as  a  man  of  slight  build,  but 
of  sound  and  elegant ;  with  considerable  genius  in  him,  considerable 
faculty  of  speech  and  rhythmic  insight,  and  with  a  morality  that 
shone  distinguished  among  his  contemporaries.  I  reckoned  him 
(with  those  blue  blushes  and  those  red)  to  be  the  perhaps  excitablest 
of  all  men ;  and  that  a  deep  mute  monition  of  conscience  had  spoken 
to  him,  "You  are  capable  of  running  mad,  if  you  don't  take  care. 
Acquire  habitudes  ;  stick  firm  as  adamant  to  them  at  all  times,  and 
work,  continually  work  !  " 

This,  for  thirty  or  forty  years,  he  had  punctually  and  impetu- 
ously done  ;  no  man  so  habitual,  we  were  told  ;  gave  up  his  poetry, 
at  a  given  hour,  on  stroke  of  the  clock,  and  took  to  prose,  etc.  etc.; 


528  APPENDIX. 

and,  as  to  diligence  and  velocity,  employed  his  very  walking  hours, 
walked  with  a  book  in  his  hand  ;  and  by  these  methods  of  his,  had 
got  through  perhaps  a  greater  amount  of  work,  counting  quantity 
and  quality,  than  any  other  man  whatever  in  those  years  of  his  ;  till 
all  suddenly  ended.  I  likened  him  to  one  of  those  huge  sandstone 
grinding  cylinders  which  I  had  seen  at  Manchester,  turning  with  in- 
conceivable velocity  (in  the  condemned  room  of  the  iron  factory, 
where  "  the  men  die  of  lung  disease  at  forty,"  but  are  permitted  to 
smoke  in  their  damp  cellar,  and  think  that  a  rich  recompense  !) — 
screaming  harshly,  and  shooting  out  each  of  them  its  sheet  of  fire 
(yellow,  starlight,  etc.  according  as  it  is  brass  or  other  kind  of  metal 
that  you  grind  and  polish  there) — beautiful  sheets  of  fire,  pouring 
out  each  as  if  from  the  paper  cap  of  its  low-stooping-backed  grinder, 
when  you  look  from  rearward.  For  many  years  these  stones  grind 
so,  at  such  a  rate  ;  till  at  last  (in  some  cases)  comes  a  moment  when 
the  stone's  cohesion  is  quite  worn  out,  overcome  by  the  stupendous 
velocity  long  continued  ;  and  while  grinding  its  fastest,  it  flies  off 
altogether,  and  settles  some  yards  from  you,  a  grinding-stone  no 
longer,  but  a  cartload  of  quiet  sand. 

Of  Wordsworth  I  have  little  to  write  that  could  ever  be  of  use  to 
myself  or  others.  I  did  not  see  him  much,  or  till  latish  in  my  course 
see  him  at  all ;  nor  did  we  deeply  admire  one  another  at  any  time  ! 
Of  me  in  my  first  times  he  had  little  knowledge  ;  and  any  feeling  he 
had  towards  mc,  I  suspect,  was  largely  blended  with  abhorrence  and 
perhaps  a  kind  of  fear.  His  works  I  knew,  but  never  considerably 
reverenced;  could  not,  on  attempting  it.  A  man  recognisably  of 
strong  intellectual  powers,  strong  character  ;  given  to  meditation, 
and  much  contemptuous  of  the  unmeditative  world  and  its  noisy 
nothingnesses ;  had  a  fine  limpid  style  of  writing  and  dehneating,  in 
his  small  way ;  a  fine  limpid  vein  of  melody  too  in  him  (as  of  an 
honest  rustic  fiddle,  good,  and  well  handled,  but  wanting  two  or 
more  of  the  strings,  and  not  capable  of  much !)  In  fact  a  rather 
dull,  hard-tempered,  unproductive  and  almost  wearisome  kind  of 
man ;  not  adorable,  by  any  means,  as  a  great  poetic  genius,  much 


/^ 


APPENDIX.  529 

less  as  the  Trismegistus  of  such  ;  whom  only  a  select  few  could  ever 
read,  instead  of  mis-reading,  which  was  the  opinion  his  worshippers 
confidently  entertained  of  him !  Privately  I  had  a  real  respect  for 
him  withal,  founded  on  his  early  biography  (which  Wilson  of  Edin- 
burgh had  painted  to  me  as  of  antique  greatness).  "  Poverty  and 
Peasanthood  !  Be  it  so  !  but  we  consecrate  ourselves  to  the  muses, 
all  the  same,  and  will  proceed  on  those  terms,  heaven  aiding!" 
This,  and  what  of  faculty  I  did  recognise  in  the  man,  gave  me  a 
clear  esteem  of  him,  as  of  one  remarkable  and  fairly  beyond  com- 
mon ; — not  to  disturb  which,  I  avoided  speaking  of  him  to  his  wor- 
shippers ;  or,  if  the  topic  turned  up,  would  listen  with  an  acquiescing 
air.  But  to  my  private  self  his  divine  reflections  and  unfathomabili- 
ties  seemed  stinted,  scanty,  palish  and  uncertain  ;  perhaps  in  part 
a  feeble  reflex  (derived  at  second  hand  through  Coleridge)  of  the 
immense  German  fund  of  such: — and  I  reckoned  his  poetic  store- 
house to  be  far  from  an  opulent  or  well  furnished  apartment !  It 
was  perhaps  about  1840  that  I  first  had  any  decisive  meeting  with 
Wordsworth,  or  made  any  really  personal  acquaintance  with  him. 
In  parties  at  Taylor's  I  may  have  seen  him  before  ;  but  we  had  no 
speech  together,  nor  did  we  specially  notice  one  another.  One  such 
time  I  do  remember  (probably  before,  as  it  was  in  my  earlier  days 
of  Sterling  acquaintanceship,  when  Sterling  used  to  argue  much 
with  me) ;  Wordsworth  sat  silent,  almost  next  to  me,  while  Sterling 
took  to  asserting  the  claims  of  Kotzebue  as  a  dramatist  ("recom- 
mended even  by  Goethe,"  as  he  likewise  urged) ;  whom  I  with 
pleasure  did  my  endeavour  to  explode  from  that  mad  notion,  and 
thought  (as  I  still  recollect),  "  This  will  perhaps  please  Wordsworth 
too  ;  "  who,  however,  gave  not  the  least  sign  of  that  or  any  other 
feeling.  I  had  various  dialogues  with  him  in  that  same  room  ;  but 
those,  I  judge,  were  all  or  mostly  of  after  date. 

On  a  summer  morning  (let  us  call  it  1840  then)  I  was  apprised 
by  Taylor  that  Wordsworth  had  come  to  town,  and  would  meet  a 
small  party  of  us  at  a  certain  tavern  in  St.  James's  Street,  at  break- 
fast, to  which  I  was  invited  for  the  given  day  and  hour.     We  had  a 
34 


530  APPENDIX. 

pretty  little  room,  quiet  though  looking  streetward  (tavern's  name  is 
quite  lost  to  me)  ;  the  morning  sun  was  pleasantly  tinting  the  oppo- 
site houses,  a  balmy,  calm,  and  sunlight  morning.  Wordsworth, 
I  think,  arrived  just  along  with  me  ;  we  had  still  five  minutes  of 
sauntering  and  miscellaneous  talking  before  the  whole  were  assem- 
bled. I  do  not  positively  remember  any  of  them,  except  that  James 
Spedding  was  there,  and  that  the  others,  not  above  five  or  six  in 
whole,  were  polite  intelligent  quiet  persons,  and,  except  Taylor  and 
Wordsworth,  not  of  any  special  distinction  in  the  world.  Breakfast 
was  pleasant,  fairly  beyond  the  common  of  such  things.  Words- 
worth seemed  in  good  tone,  and,  much  to  Taylor's  satisfaction, 
talked  a  great  deal;  about  "  poetic  "  correspondents  of  his  own  (i.e. 
correspondents  for  the  sake  of  his  poetry  ;  especially  one  such  who 
had  sent  him,  from  Canton,  an  excellent  chest  of  tea  ;  correspon- 
dent grinningly  applauded  by  us  all)  ;  then  about  ruralities  and  mis- 
cellanies ;  "Countess  of  Pembroke"  antique  she-Clifford,  glory  of 
those  northern  parts,  who  was  not  new  to  any  of  us,  but  was  set 
forth  by  Wordsworth  with  gusto  and  brief  emphasis ;  "you  lily- 
livered,"  etc.  ;  and  now  the  only  memorable  item  under  that  head. 
These  were  the  first  topics.  Then  finally  about  literature,  literary 
laws,  practices,  observances,  at  considerable  length,  and  turning 
wholly  on  the  mechanical  part,  including  even  a  good  deal  of  shal- 
low enough  etymology,  from  me  and  others,  which  was  well  re- 
ceived. On  all  this  Wordsworth  enlarged  with  evident  satisfaction, 
and  was  joyfully  reverent  of  the  "wells  of  English  undefiled;" 
though  stone  dumb  as  to  the  deeper  rules  and  wells  of  Eternal  Truth 
and  Harmony,  which  you  were  to  try  and  set  forth  by  said  undefiled 
wells  of  English  or  what  other  speech  you  had  !  To  me  a  little  dis- 
appointing, but  not  much  ;  though  it  would  have  given  me  pleasure 
had  the  robust  veteran  man  emerged  a  little  out  of  vocables  into 
things,  now  and  then,  as  he  never  once  chanced  to  do.  For  the 
rest,  he  talked  well  in  his  way  ;  with  veracity,  easy  brevity  and  force, 
as  a  wise  tradesman  would  of  his  tools  and  workshop, — and  as  no 
unwise  one  could.  His  voice  was  good,  frank  and  sonorous,  though 
practically  clear  distinct  and  forcible  rather  than  melodious  ;  the 


APPENDIX.  531 

tone  of  him  businesslike,  sedately  confident ;  no  discourtesy,  yet  no 
anxiety  about  being  courteous.  A  fine  wholesome  rusticity,  fresh 
as  his  mountain  breezes,  sat  well  on  the  stalwart  veteran,  and  on  all 
he  said  and  did.  You  would  have  said  he  was  a  usually  taciturn 
man  ;  glad  to  unlock  himself  to  audience  sympathetic  and  intelligent, 
when  such  offered  itself.  His  face  bore  marks  of  much,  not  always 
peaceful,  meditation  ;  the  look  of  it  not  bland  or  benevolent  so  much 
as  close  impregnable  and  hard:  a  man  multa  tacere  loquive  paratiis, 
in  a  world  where  he  had  experienced  no  lack  of  contradictions  as  he 
strode  along !  The  eyes  were  not  very  brilliant,  but  they  had  a 
quiet  clearness  ;  there  was  enough  of  brow  and  well  shaped  ;  rather, 
too  much  of  cheek  ("  horse  face  "  I  have  heard  satirists  say)  ;  face 
of  squarish  shape  and  decidedly  longish,  as  I  think  the  head  itself 
was  (its  "  length"  going  horizontal) ;  he  was  large-boned,  lean,  but 
still  firm-knit  tall  and  strong-looking  when  he  stood,  a  right  good 
old  steel-grey  figure,  with  rustic  simplicity  and  dignity  about  him, 
and  a  vivacious  strength  looking  through  him  which  might  have 
suited  one  of  those  old  steel-grey  markgrafs  whom  Henry  the  Fowler 
set  up  to  ward  the  "marches"  and  do  battle  with  the  intrusive 
heathen  in  a  stalwart  and  judicious  manner. 

On  this  and  other  occasional  visits  of  his,  I  saw  Wordsworth  a 
number  of  times,  at  dinner,  in  evening  parties  ;  and  we  grew  a  little 
more  familiar,  but  without  much  increase  of  real  intimacy  or  affec- 
tion springing  up  between  us.  He  was  willing  to  talk  with  me  in  a 
corner,  in  noisy  extensive  circles,  having  weak  eyes,  and  little  loving 
the  general  babble  current  in  such  places.  One  evening,  probably 
about  this  time,  I  got  him  upon  the  subject  of  great  poets,  who  I 
thought  might  be  admirable  equally  to  us  both  ;  but  was  rather  mis- 
taken, as  I  gradually  found.  Pope's  partial  failure  I  was  prepared 
for;  less  for  the  narrowish  limits  visible  in  Milton  and  others.  I 
tried  him  with  Burns,  of  whom  he  had  sung  tender  recognition  ;  but 
Burns  also  turned  out  to  be  a  limited  inferior  creature,  any  genius 
he  had  a  theme  for  one's  pathos  rather ;  even  Shakspeare  himself 
had  his  blind  sides,  bis  limitations  ;  gradually  it  became  apparent 
to  me  that  of  transcendent  unhmited  there  was,  to  this  critic,  prob- 


532  APPENDIX. 

ably  but  one  specimen  known,  Wordsworth  himself!  He  by  no 
means  said  so,  or  hinted  so,  in  words  ;  but  on  the  whole  it  was  all  I 
gathered  from  him  in  this  considerable  tete-a-tete  of  ours  ;  and  it 
was  not  an  agreeable  conquest.  New  notion  as  to  poetry  or  poet  I 
had  not  in  the  smallest  degree  got  ;  but  my  insight  into  the  depths 
of  Wordsworth's  pride  in  himself  had  considerably  augmented  ;  and 
it  did  not  increase  my  love  of  him  ;  though  I  did  not  in  the  least 
hate  it  either,  so  quiet  was  it,  so  fixed,  unappealing,  like  a  dim  old 
lichened  crag  on  the  wayside,  the  private  meaning  of  which,  in  con- 
trast with  any  public  meaning  it  had,  you  recognised ^with  a  kind  of 
not  wholly  melancholy  grin. 

Another  and  better  corner  dialogue  I  afterwards  had  with  him, 
possibly  also  about  this  time  ;  which  raised  him  intellectually  some 
real  degrees  higher  in  my  estimation  than  any  of  his  deliverances, 
written  or  oral,  had  ever  done  ;  and  which  I  may  reckon  as  the  best 
of  all  his  discoursings  or  dialogues  with  me.  He  had  withdrawn  to  a 
corner,  out  of  the  light  and  of  the  general  babble,  as  usual  with  him. 
I  joined  him  there,  and  knowing  how  little  fruitful  was  the  literary 
topic  between  us,  set  him  on  giving  me  an  account  of  the  notable 
practicalities  he  had  seen  in  life,  especially  of  the  notable  men.  He 
went  into  all  this  with  a  certain  alacrity,  and  was  willing  to  speak 
whenever  able  on  the  terms.  He  had  been  in  France  in  the  earlier 
or  secondary  stage  of  the  Revolution  ;  had  witnessed  the  struggle  of 
Girondins  and  Mountain,  in  particular  the  execution  of  Gorsas,  "  the 
first  deputy  sent  to  the  scaffold  ;"  and  testified  strongly  to  the  omi- 
nous feeling  which  that  event  produced  in  everybody,  and  of  which 
he  himself  still  seemed  to  retain  something  :  "  Where  will  it  end, 
when  you  have  set  an  example  in  this  kind  ?  "  I  knew  well  about  Gor- 
sas, but  had  found  in  my  readings  no  trace  of  the  public  emotion  his 
death  excited  ;  and  perceived  now  that  Wordsworth  might  be  taken  as 
a  true  supplement  to  my  book,  on  this  small  point.  He  did  not  other- 
wise add  to  or  alter  my  ideas  on  the  Revolution,  nor  did  we  dwell  long 
there  ;  but  hastened  over  to  England  and  to  the  noteworthy,  or  at 
least  noted  men  of  that  and  the  subsequent  time.  "  Noted"  and 
named,  I  ought  perhaps  to  say,  rather  than  "noteworthy  ;"  for  in 


APPENDIX.  533 

general  I  forget  what  men  they  were  ;  and  now  remember  only  the 
excellent  sagacity,  distinctness  and  credibility  of  Wordsworth's  little 
biographic  portraitures  of  them.  Never,  or  never  but  once,  had  I 
seen  a  stronger  inteyect,  a  more  luminous  and  veracious  power  of 
insight,  directed  upon  such  a  survey  of  fellow  men  and  their  contem- 
porary journey  through  the  world.  A  great  deal  of  Wordsworth  lay 
in  the  mode  and  tone  of  drawing,  but  you  perceived  it  to  be  faith- 
ful, accurate,  and  altogether  life-like,  though  Wordsvvorthian.  One 
of  the  best  remembered  sketches  (almost  the  only  one  now  remciu- 
bered  at  all)  was  that  of  Wilberforce,  the  famous  Nigger-philan- 
thropist, drawing-room  Christian,  and  busy  man  and  politician.  In 
all  which  capacities  Wordsworth's  esteem  of  him  seemed  to  be  pri- 
vately as  small  as  my  own  private  one,  and  was  amusing  to  gather. 
No  hard  word  of  him  did  he  speak  or  hint  ;  told  in  brief  firm  business 
terms,  how  he  was  born  at  or  near  the  place  called  Wilberforce  in 
Yorkshire  ("  force  "  signifying  torrent  or  angry  brook  as  in  Cumber- 
land?) ;  where,  probably,  his  forefathers  may  have  been  possessors, 
though  he  was  poorish  ;  how  he  did  this  and  that  of  insignificant  (to 
Wordsworth  insignificant)  nature;  "and  then,"  ended  Wordsworth, 
"  he  took  into  the  oil  trade"  (I  suppose  the  Hull  whaling);  which  lively 
phrase,  and  the  incomparable  historical  tone  it  was  given  in — "  the 
oil  trade  " — as  a  thing  perfectly  natural  and  proper  for  such  a  man,  is 
almost  the  only  point  in  the  delineation  which  is  now  vividly  present  to 
me.  I  remember  only  the  rustic  picture,  sketched  as  with  a  burnt  stick 
on  the  board  of  a  pair  of  bellows,  seemed  to  me  completely  good  j 
and  that  the  general  effect  was,  one  saw  the  great  Wilberforce  and 
his  existence  visible  in  all  their  main  lineaments,  but  only  as  through 
the  reversed  telescope,  and  reduced  to  the  size  of  a  mouse  and  its 
nest,  or  little  more!  This  was,  in  most  or  in  all  cases,  the  result 
brought  out ;  oneself  and  telescope  of  natural  (or  perhaps  preter- 
natural) size  ;  but  the  object,  so  great  to  vulgar  eyes,  reduced  amaz- 
ingly, with  all  its  lineaments  recognizable.  I  found  a  very  superior 
talent  in  these  Wordsworth  delineations.  They  might  have  re- 
minded me,  though  I  know  not  whether  they  did  at  the  time,  of  a 
larger  series  like  them,  which  I  had  from  my  father  during  two  wet 


534  APPENDIX. 

days  -which  confined  us  to  the  house,  the  last  time  we  met  at  Scots- 
brig  !  These  were  of  select  Annandale  figures  whom  I  had  seen  in 
my  boyhood  ;  and  of  whom,  now  that  they  were  all  vanished,  I  was 
glad  to  have,  for  the  first  time,  some  real  kn(jwledge  as  facts  ;  the 
outer  simnlacra,  in  all  their  equipments,  being  still  so  pathetically 
vivid  to  me.  My  father's,  in  rugged  simple  force,  picturesque 
ingenuity,  veracity  and  brevity,  were,  I  do  judge,  superior  to  even 
Wordsworth's,  as  bits  of  human  portraiture  ;  without  flavor  of  con- 
tempt, too,  but  given  out  with  judicial  indifference  ;  and  intermixed 
here  and  there  with  flashes  of  the  poetical  and, soberly  pathetic 
(e.g.  the  death  of  Ball  of  Dunnaby,  and  why  the  two  joiners  were 
seen  sawing  wood  in  a  pour  of  rain),  which  the  Wordsworth  sketches, 
mainly  of  distant  and  indifferent  persons,  altogether  wanted.  Oh 
my  brave,  dear,  and  ever-honoured  peasant  father,  where  among 
the  grandees,  sages,  and  recognized  poets  of  the  world,  did  I  listen 
to  such  sterling  speech  as  yours,  golden  product  of  a  heart  and  brain 
all  sterling  and  royal !  That  is  a  literal  fact  ;  and  it  has  often  filled 
me  with  strange  reflections,  in  the  whirlpools  of  this  mad  world ! 

During  the  last  seven  or  ten  years  of  his  life,  Wordsworth  felt 
himself  to  be  a  recognised  lion,  in  certain  considerable  London  cir- 
cles, and  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  up  to  town  with  his  wife  for  a 
month  or  two  every  season,  to  enjoy  his  quiet  triumph  and  collect 
his  bits  of  tribute  tales  quales.  The  places  where  I  met  him  oftenest, 
were  Marshall's  (the  great  Leeds  linen  manufacturer,  an  excellent 
and  very  opulent  man),  Spring-Rice's  (i.e.  Lord  Monteagle's,  who 
and  whose  house  was  strangely  intermarried  with  this  Marshall's), 
and  the  first  Lord  Stanley's  of  Alderly  (who  then,  perhaps,  was  still 
Sir  Thomas  Stanley).  Wordsworth  took  his  bit  of  lionism  very  quietly, 
•with  a  smile  sardonic  rather  than  triumphant,  and  certainly  got  no 
harm  by  it,  if  he  got  or  expected  little  good.  His  M'ife,  a  small,  with- 
ered, puckered,  winking  lady,  who  never  spoke,  seemed  to  be  more  in 
earnest  about  the  affair,  and  v/as  visibly  and  sometimes  ridiculously 
assiduous  to  secure  her  proper  place  of  precedence  at  table.  One 
evening  at  Lord  Monteagle's — Ah,  who  was  it  that  then  made  me  laugh 
as  we  went  home  together:    Ah  me!  Wordsworth  generally  spoke  a 


I 


APPENDIX.  535 

little  with  me  on  those  occasions ;  sometimes,  perhaps,  we  sat  by 
one  another ;  but  there  came  from  him  nothing  considerable,  and 
happily  at  least  nothing  with  an  efifort.  "  If  you  think  me  dull,  be  it 
just  so  !  " — this  seemed  to  a  most  respectable  extent  to  be  his 
inspiring  humour.  Hardly  above  once  (perhaps  at  the  Stanleys') 
do  I  faintly  recollect  something  of  the  contrary  on  his  part  for  a 
little  while,  which  was  not  pleasant  or  successful  while  it  lasted. 
The  light  was  always  afflict. ve  to  his  eyes  ;  he  carried  in  his  pocket 
something  like  a  skeleton  brass  candlestick,  in  which,  setting  it  on 
the  dinner-table,  between  him  and  the  most  afflictive  or  nearest  of 
the  chief  lights,  he  touched  a  little  spring,  and  there  flirted  out,  at 
the  top  of  his  brass  implement,  a  small  vertical  green  circle  which 
prettily  enough  threw  his  eyes  into  shade,  and  screened  him  from 
that  sorrow.  In  proof  of  his  equanimity  as  lion  I  remember,  in 
connection  with  this  green  shade,  one  little  glimpse  which  shall  be 
given  presently  as  finis.  But  first  let  me  say  that  all  these  Words- 
worth phenomena  appear  to  have  been  indifferent  to  me,  and  have 
melted  to  steamy  oblivion  in  a  singular  degree.  Of  his  talk  to  others 
in  my  hearing  I  remember  simply  nothing,  not  even  a  word  or  ges- 
ture. To  myself  it  seemed  once  or  twice  as  if  he  bore  suspicions, 
thinking  I  was  not  a  real  worshipper,  which  threw  him  into  some- 
thing of  embarrassment,  till  I  hastened  to  get  them  laid,  by  frank 
discourse  on  some  suitable  thing ;  nor,  when  we  did  talk,  was  there 
on  his  side  or  on  mine  the  least  utterance  worth  noting.  The  tone 
of  his  voice  when  I  got  him  afloat  on  some  Cumberland  or  other 
matter  germane  to  him,  had  a  braced  rustic  vivacity,  willingness, 
and  solid  precision,  which  alone  rings  in  my  ear  when  all  else  is 
gone.  Of  some  Druid-circle,  for  example,  he  prolonged  his  response 
to  me  with  the  addition,  "  And  there  is  another  some  miles  off, 
which  the  country  people  call  Long  Meg  and  her  Daughters  "  ;  as 
to  the  now  ownership  of  which  "  It "  etc.  ;  "  and  then  it  came  into 
the  hands  of  a  Mr.  Crackenthorpe  ;  "  the  sound  of  those  two  phrases 
is  still  lively  and  present  with  me  ;  meaning  or  sound  of  absolutely 
nothing  more.  Still  more  memorable  is  an  ocular  glimpse  I  had  in 
one  of  these  Wordsworthian  Hon- dinners,  very  symbolic  to  me  of  his 


536  APPENDIX. 

general  deportment  there,  and  far  clearer  than  the  little  feature  of 
opposite  sort,  ambiguously  given  above  (recollection  of  that  viz.  of 
unsuccessful  exertion  at  a  Stanley  dinner  being  dubious  and  all  but 
extinct,  while  this  is  still  vivid  to  me  as  of  yesternight).  Dinner 
was  large,  luminous,  sumptuous  ;  I  sat  a  long  way  from  Words- 
worth ;  dessert  I  think  had  come  in,  and  certainly  there  reigned  in 
all  quarters  a  cackle  as  of  Babel  (only  politer  perhaps),  which  far  up 
in  Wordsworth's  quarter  (who  was  leftward  on  my  side  of  the  table) 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  sententious,  rather  louder,  logical  and  quasi- 
scientific  turn,  heartily  unimportant  to  gods  and  men,  so  far  as  I 
could  judge  of  it  and  of  the  other  babble  reigning.  I  look  upwards, 
leftwards,  the  coast  being  luckily  for  a  moment  clear  ;  then,  far  off, 
beautifully  screened  in  the  shadow  of  his  vertical  green  circle,  which 
was  on  the  farther  side  of  him,  sate  Wordsworth,  silent,  slowly  but 
steadily  gnawing  some  portion  of  what  I  judged  to  be  raisins,  with 
his  eye  and  attention  placidly  fixed  on  these  and  these  alone.  The 
sight  of  whom,  and  of  his  rock-like  indifference  to  the  babble,  quasi- 
scientific  and  other,  with  attention  turned  on  the  small  practical 
alone,  was  comfortable  and  amusing  to  me,  who  felt  like  him  but 
could  not  eat  raisins.  This  little  glimpse  I  could  still  paint,  so  clear 
and  bright  is  it,  and  this  shall  be  symbolical  of  all. 

In  a  few  years,  I  forget  in  how  many  and  when,  these  Words- 
worth appearances  in  London  ceased  ;  we  heard,  not  of  ill-health 
perhaps,  but  of  increasing  love  of  rest ;  at  length  of  the  long 
sleep's  coming ;  and  never  saw  Wordsworth  more.  One  felt  his 
death  as  the  extinction  of  a  public  light,  but  not  otherwise.  The 
public  itself  found  not  much  to  say  of  him,  and  staggered  on  to 
meaner  but  more  pressing  objects.  Why  should  I  continue  these 
melancholy  jottings  in  which  I  have  no  interest  ;  in  which  the  one 
figure  that  could  interest  me  is  almost  wanting !  I  will  cease. 
[Finished,  after  many  miserable  interruptions,  catarrhal  and  other, 
at  Mentone,  March  8,  1867.] 


3  0  § 


8 


n^'Kirt     l«M^1.     i^     •rvTTTI JL»_  _ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


*r(?Ty 


W.i 


(%' 


■^    r^ 


D!?CHARGE-URL 
MAY  2  9  1982 


irm  L9— Series  444 


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiHiii 

3  1158  00791  6108 


/"C 


■»   I 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  365  503    2 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALlFOJRNLl 

AT 

LOS  ANGELEb 

LIBRARY 


